


MobStruck (or An Infinity-Pool Boy's Work Is Never Done)

by glitterandrocketfuel



Series: MobStruck AU [1]
Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mob, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Fluff Smut and Angst, M/M, Mafia AU, Mob!Pete, MobTrick, Oral Sex, and some other people who are jerks, like if the mob were populated by stupid boys doing stupid things for love, only like the dumb mob
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-08
Updated: 2019-08-08
Packaged: 2020-08-11 14:07:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20154838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glitterandrocketfuel/pseuds/glitterandrocketfuel
Summary: Can you ever finish cleaning an infinity pool?Pete Wentz is a lousy mobster, but he's a great pool-party animal. Patrick Stump is a great pool-boy slash bartender, but he didn't infiltrate the Clandestine crime family's villa just to fish lost bikini tops out of the pool. The Don believes Pete's crucial to keeping the balance between the warring clans of the LA underworld, and Patrick is the Don's to command. Even if he doesn't understand how a half-drunk party boy is crucial to anything but crashing the booze economy (and the delicate chemical balance of Patrick's pool).Still, there's something more than seriously questionable pool fashion to the clueless crime lord and it's not long before the pool boy is under his spell.The only question is whether or not these two have enough sense between them to fill a banana hammock.





	MobStruck (or An Infinity-Pool Boy's Work Is Never Done)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SnitchesAndTalkers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnitchesAndTalkers/gifts), [PlatinumAndPercocet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlatinumAndPercocet/gifts), [carbonbased000](https://archiveofourown.org/users/carbonbased000/gifts).

> I blame the Discord for this one. Soul Punk-era Patrick deciding to be Mobster Pete's pool boy was a stupid idea that just wouldn't leave me alone. And for some reason, Mania-era Pete decided that he was the fashion disaster to take on the mob world in a role to remember. And no mob would have either of them unless it was as dumb as they are. So without further ado, the Merry Mobsters of Disorganized Crime formally invite you to take a dive into the Infinity Pool On High for shenanigans, hijinks, and ridiculous boys doing stupid things for outlaw love.

The summer sun shone brilliant, throwing jewels off the water, which lapped in gentle waves before plunging over the optical-illusion edge of the infinity pool. The clematis hung thick and redolent with sweet floral scents, crawling up the trellises and pergolas that flanked the flagstone patio surrounding the pool and obscured the tiny pool-house. The people trooping down the wide, manicured lawn were perfect--perfectly sculpted, expertly attired, beautiful accessories in fluttering cover-ups and casual, loose clothing about to be shed in favor of designer swimsuits. Which they did. Leaving their cast-offs on the grass and tossed over chaise lounges, ready to turn his pristine tableau into a garbage dump of humanity-soup.

_This is why Clandestine can't expand its territory_. The sheer wastefulness of the clan in this villa alone would burn out this part of the Valley in short order. _Somebody needs to put a leash on them_, Patrick thought. _And a muzzle_, he added at the sounds of hoots, hollers, and one drunken, braying laugh coming from the center of the hyena pack.

His fingers felt for the weapon holstered beneath the bar. What a stroke of luck on his part and carelessness on the part of Clandestine to assume their home base could never be infiltrated. But of course, nobody notices the pool boy when they're staggering around like the obnoxiously laughing one, clad in a gold lame housecoat that barely covered his thighs, bare to the mid-calf where mismatched socks slouched around little birdie ankles. A pair of champagne flutes were stuck in the belt of the housecoat, and he staggered across the lawn with the open bottle of Moet clutched in one hand, his feet barely keeping inside the flip-flop slides. One tall, willowy girl who Patrick was sure fancied herself as the next up-and-coming super-model giggled and steadied him, towering over him in both her natural height and her heels.

She lost a heel, staggered herself, shrugged, and kicked off the other one. It arced through the air until it landed in the pristine water Patrick had _just fucking cleaned_ and Patrick's fingers twitched towards the firearm.

_Steady_, he told himself. _Save it for the real prize_.

His intel hadn't provided him with anything other than the name of the target. Andy said this Pete Wentz dude was "Clandestine's linch-pin," which didn't mean a damn thing to Patrick. _Give me something I can use--is this guy direct family line? Know the underwater goings-on in the organization?_ With the contested turf on the Northside left by the Black Parade taken down by the Killjoys, there was no longer a buffer between Clandestine's turf and his own Truant Wave's. 

Patrick wished he could contact Andy right now and question his lieutenant--this crew couldn't even put their pants on without help, as evidenced by a thick, unshaven dude with curly hair sprawled face-first in the flowerbed with his pants around his ankles and one shoe off--much less be a line into the internal workings of a crime syndicate as tight as Clandestine.

Patrick straightened his bow tie, narrowed his eyes, and braced for the onslaught.

**

_There's something off about that pool boy_, was Pete's first thought as he exited the cool darkness of the mansion for the bright sunlight and sparkling infinity pool outside. For one thing, he wore a bow tie and a crisp button-down shirt as he lounged against the tiki-themed wall of the shaded bar next to the pool house. For another, he smirked. His mouth was--was--_Insolent, that's the word_. Lounging like he owned the place and Pete was just there for the pool and the free drinks like the rest of-- Pete glanced to either side of him.

The Entourage backed him up, trailing and staggering after him from the club to the limo and the party bus to the villa's party rooms, and now to the pool for the morning sun and mimosas. _But do they have your back?_

Pete dismissed the thought and the accompanying twinge of panic that wanted someplace dark and cool and quiet because really, who would want to escape that many people hoping for a favor or a boon or a scrap of his attention in exchange for all of theirs? Pete thrived on it.

They all loved him, every last one. He laughed at Joe's antics and stole glances through the sheer halter top of one of the models--what was her name? Melissa? Margaret? Meagan?--smirking at seeing a nipple as if he were a teenager again.

And quiet places? They were for chumps who couldn't get over bad thoughts and forget bad memories. He grabbed the champagne bottle from the M-girl and tipped it back into his mouth as he stumbled down the hill. _That's what we do to bad memories, fuckers._

He reached the flagstones and stopped. Like a well-oiled machine, the hangers-on halted, awaiting his pleasure. From behind his sunglasses, he grinned, wide and toothy. "Are you ready?"

A cheer went up from the assembled guests and his friends--acquaintances--okay some of these people he was sure just followed him home from the club last night. 

"Isn't this the most amazing view?"

On cue, a chorus of oohs, and an "Oh, Pete!" from the model. Or maybe her friend. One of them, both of them...he could take them to bed upstairs any time he wanted. All it would take was the crook of a finger.

No matter, they adored him. They were here for him. They were his friends, dammit. Joe had been at his side for forever since he was old enough to toddle after a school-age Pete. And--and--Pete looked around. There! One of the younger sons of one of the lieutenants--_I'll think of his name in a minute_, Pete thought. _The bodyguard, I know him, too_. And the daughters of the minor branch--one of them might be his wife someday (and the other one his mistress).

The temporary vertigo faded (was pushed back) and Pete widened his grin for the benefit of his audience--friends, he corrected himself. He flung his arms wide, letting the breeze catch his thigh-length robe and slipped it off his shoulders to blow towards the pool--where the pool boy lounged against the shadowy wall behind the bar and smirked like he knew every one of Pete's secrets and that doubt that even now he shoved down because the son of that lieutenant had a name, dammit, and Pete would remember it in a minute. And those daughters knew Pete would be a catch they could be proud--er, okay, show off, at least.

The pool boy's lips curved up. Lips that should be illegal on a guy. Pete shoved the thought--like all the other thoughts he'd had over the years--about Joe, about the lieutenant's son--_Chris! That was his name! I knew it'd come to me_\--and about other random, pretty men he'd met in the clubs or at the resort. He should be growing out of that shit already. Instead, he thought of women. Boobs, boobs, boobs, like the nipples shadowing the halter top of that model's dress. Pretty curves and squishy bits and musky damp thighs. Not dapperly-dressed pool boys with mouths of sin and softness tucked between masculine angles and whiskered planes.

The wind caught his robe and he let it fly free. "Let the bacchanalia begin!"

A handful of people stopped and looked at him, confusion slackening jaws and tilting heads. "Uhh, what's a--" 

Pete chugged from the bottle of Moet and sprayed it out on the closest people. "Go party, fuckers!"

**

Maybe, Patrick considered, he was supposed to challenge the intel that claimed Wentz was some cunning mastermind and therefore prove the staleness of its source. Because all he saw was an idiot, full of sound and fury, significant in nothing save for the random circumstance and the universal gravity that paired up "bro" and "club" like rum and Coke. 

He was confident that any smoky glances or undue attention on the staff--specifically him--was mere idleness on the part of the ringleader. Idleness that was the trademark of this Pete person, surrounded by sycophants and suck-ups. Most of whom descended on the bar like vultures to a dead body in the desert. Patrick shifted into persona, offering up easy smiles and deferential "of courses" between mixing drinks, keeping one ear cocked for slips of information more significant than, "Hey, my nipple pastie isn't sticky anymore, can I have one of yours?" or "Dude, is it contagious if it's not itchy?"

Patrick rubbed his temple and winced when no one was looking--not that they paid attention to the staff here, shoving cups into his face or just casually tossing orders over their shoulders.

The man of the hour himself approached the bar just as Patrick capped the bottles and pulled out the water testing kit. "Hey, Pool Boy, where do you think you're going?" Behind the sunglasses, he was all smiles and teeth, and Patrick was glad of his fingerless gloves because those teeth would cut his knuckles if Pete got any more obnoxious.

"Nowhere fast. You wanna come with?" He retorted instead, waving the pH kit.

"I want you to fix me a mojito." Pete moved his lips into a pout that Patrick had to admit might be working just a little. 

Patrick moved out from behind the bar. "In a minute. What's wrong with you won't be fixed by a mojito, but it'll be much worse if the pool gets gross because your crew forgot to bathe." He crouched by the pool's edge and took the water sample, then reached for the filter basket, determined not to think about the guy who may or may not be contagious. _Chlorine kills_, he reminded himself.

"Hey, I don't like it when people walk away from me." The smile behind the sunglasses became fixed and Patrick felt both smugly content and irrationally sad over the fact that he didn't need to see Pete's eyes to notice the moment the smile drained out of them.

From behind his own sunglasses, Patrick tilted his head up to look at Pete. It was better than looking at the hairball already thickening in the bottom of the filter basket. "You should start to," he said. "There are some people in this world whose best good work is done when they walk away from everybody else."

**

Pete glared down at the pool boy from behind his Wayfarers. The hot streak that tightened his stomach almost--_almost_ made it to his fist. _Thirty seconds_, he thought. _Thirty seconds before this--this_ fucking _guy--made you, Wentz_. He bared his teeth. His smile was no longer the flirtatious grin he'd come here with. "I'm not known for my good works." 

The pool boy rose and slammed the filter basket against the side of a bucket, then peered at the water testing vials, eyeballing the colors against the key printed on the side of the kit. "I'm not known for my good mojitos."

Against his will, Pete barked out a laugh. "Then I guess you'll just have to make me a bad one." As the pool boy leaned over to retrieve the equipment, Pete eyed the stretch of his dress pants--_dress pants, in this heat!_\--over a rounded ass and tight, muscular thighs. The other man straightened, unconsciously flexing broad shoulders that defied his otherwise-elfin build.

The pool boy disappeared behind the screen where the pool house equipment was stored, then returned a moment later, eyebrows raised behind his shades. "Nothing I make behind that bar can make you bad when you're already the worst."

Pete told himself he was only staying around because nothing the pool boy said was anything he hadn't already thought himself when the nights turned humid and everyone else passed out in a cloud of sour beer and stale vodka. He played his trump card, reaching into the tiny pocket of his tiny swim trunks and pulling out a soggy fifty. He slapped it down on the bar. "Do your worst." The glint returned to his grin. Everybody remembered their place when the greenbacks came out, and if that little fact picked at a never-quite-healed scab inside his soul, well then, that was just real life, as Joe would say.

The pool boy reached below the bar and came up with a glass. Pete felt the other man's gaze fixed steadily on his as his hands moved, scooping ice, measuring out alcohol, even crushing mint without even bothering to look down. Under his gaze, and even from behind two sets of sunglasses, Pete began to wonder how much the dark glasses really hid.

Finally, he poured the mixture from the shaker into the glass and set the shaker down, never taking his eyes off Pete. Pete slid the fifty across the bar, a challenge. The pool boy, in response, put a single finger on the soggy bill, then leaned forward until his nose was almost touching Pete's. "My worst," he said in almost a whisper, "is not for sale." He slid the fifty back across the bar top. "Now take your medicine like a good boy."

Pete, entranced against his will, stared through two pairs of dark lenses to try to see the other man's eyes and wondered how much of his own the man behind the bar could see.

Did he see the sleepless nights? That no matter how much alcohol, how many pills, it was too easy for Pete to slam back into consciousness and a disconcerting sobriety and the nagging realization that he was slipping away, folding himself up into a tight origami swan ready to fly away and abandon him like--_No, don't think about that_. His fingers curled around the sweating glass and he brought it to his lips, licking the bottom one right before it touched the rim.

Even from behind the sunglasses, he saw the...something...flare in the other's eyes. But then the alcoholic concoction touched his mouth and cold fire burned down his throat, chasing mint and the aftertaste of gin. "Gosh, Doc. Will this make me better?"

The pool boy arched an eyebrow and for the first time, Pete noticed that his pale skin was luminous with sweat. His own tongue tingled with the taste of phantom salt. "That depends on how good you think you are in the first place."

"Hey, Pete! Quit flirting with the pool boy and come tell us a story!" One of the guys in the pool called out from a float just before the model on the shoulders of another fell over on top of him with a splash.

"Fuck you, I'm _discoursing_ here," Pete called out over his shoulder. "You wanna find out how good I am?"

"At what? _Discourse?_" The pool boy's brow arched. "Is that what we're calling it?" He smirked.

"Aww, come on, Pete!" The guy in the pool--whose voice Pete didn't even recognize--intruded on the little bubble of tension between Pete and this--employee who didn't know his place.

The pool boy jerked his chin towards the crowd waiting in the water. "Better go perform before you lose the crowd."

Pete pushed away from the bar.

"Hey," the pool boy called out. Pete turned. The other man placed one finger on the soggy fifty that rested on the bar and slid it across the teak surface towards him. "Don't forget your flash."

Pete slapped his hand down on the bill and pulled it away. With his other hand, he pulled his sunglasses down off the bridge of his nose so he could better see the man behind the bar. "Babe, when I flash you, you'll know."

**

Patrick moved like a robot, mixing up the next batch of frozen margaritas for a parade of ever-taller models in bikinis (or maybe it was the same girl in different shoes--he really couldn't tell) until a break gave him the opportunity to disappear into the pool shed and finally breathe. Chemicals notwithstanding, he was still on fire from the earlier exchange. _So that's Pete Wentz, huh?_

He pulled out his phone and stabbed the speed-dial. When Andy answered, Patrick hissed as quiet-loudly as possible. "Why didn't you fucking tell me he was hot!"

Andy was silent for a moment. "Uh, is he? I mean, I wouldn't--I'm not really the best judge--"

Patrick huffed. "Forget it, I'll deal. Listen, he's hot yes, but there's no way Banana Hammock out there is the key to anything. There must be somebody else pulling the strings."

"Did--did you just call him 'Banana Hammock'?"

"I've _seen_ things, Hurley."

"Great and terrible things?"

_Majestic things_, Patrick thought. "Things that shouldn't be confined to tropical-print spandex," he said curtly. "Especially when they seem to be doing the thinking. Is your intel really right?"

Andy sighed. "I can double-check it, but it came straight from the Don. Tell me who you see right now? Who've you interacted with?"

"Mostly? A bunch of models. Club rats and scene brats. And Wentz himself." Patrick eyeballed the pool chemicals, idly reading off the instructions for the bags of fertilizer and diatomaceous earth stacked under the shelf with the tubs of pool shock and chlorine.

"Wait, you spoke to him?" Andy's voice rose in panic. "Did he make you?"

"Make me do what?" _Make me do naughty things? I totally would_.

Andy huffed. "No, you idiot. I mean, you idiot-boss. Did he _make_ you?"

Patrick remembered what they were supposed to be talking about. "Oh! No, I don't think so. I mean, I don't think the guy could make a sandwich without help." He looked around and found the salt and the little pool-roomba that his on-the-fly pool-boy training had told him how to hook up. A spurt of raucous laughter intruded from the outside, culminating in a chant of, "Can-non-ball! Can-non-ball!"

"Look. The Don is pretty clear about this. Truant Wave keeps the balance in the underworld. It's our job to find out who's staking claims on the contested turf, and stop the usual suspects from consolidating enough power to upset the balance. Clandestine is the biggest lead we've got."

"Not this guy," Patrick insisted. "I've been here for three days, and it's nothing but club, club, limo, club and now this pool party. With people he brought back from the club." He sighed and ran one gloved hand through his sweaty hair. "Look, send Vic to press the Killjoys. They owe us one for undercutting that U-Pay used car lot over in Las Palmas that was smuggling women in the car trunks." The little shelf above the work table held an extra-large jar of Vaseline Patrick had already had to employ in getting the hose ends to properly fit to the filter nozzles, some expired sunscreen, and two big bottles of bright green aloe vera gel that belonged in the other half of the building where the cabana and changing room was located.

"And if they say we're square for them knocking over the meth lab at the Squeeky-Kleen Car Wash?"

Patrick glanced out the grimy window that was barely a slit near the roof. Up the hill, he spotted movement at the villa. "Remind them who bribed all the building inspectors to overlook the second sub-basement after that panic at the disco over on Fifty-Seventh." 

"That wasn't Truant Wave, though. That was the Soul Punk. And nobody knows who the Soul Punk is." Andy's last words dripped with the irony of a conversation between the two people who knew exactly who the Soul Punk was.

Patrick took up the broom in the corner and swept out beneath the shelves and the work table where plastic daisy-shaped cup holders were stacked alongside a croquet set and--should anyone doubt the criminal nature of Clandestine--some highly illegal Lawn Jarts. "Look, I still say this guy isn't the key to anything. He's a--a hedonist. Only interested in the next buzz or the next fuck."

"And that's why he's so interesting to you. When's the last time you got buzzed?" Andy asked. "Or fucked?"

Even in the cool darkness of the pool shed, alone, heat crawled up the back of his neck the minute he mentioned the word "fuck" in the context of Pete Wentz. Because honestly? He could see the attraction. The guy was an idiot, a self-indulgent brat who surrounded himself with the most obvious of hangers-on, and probably wouldn't know a real friend if they dropped to their knees in front of him and tongued the underside of his balls but--

"Linch-pin," Andy said.

"What?"

"The Don's words were that this guy is the linch-pin."

Patrick scowled. "Key, linch-pin, what's the difference?" Someone had oh-so-courteously left an uncoiled ribbon of some sort of tape--maybe landscaping tie or floral wire tape. Patrick coiled it as best as he could until it disappeared behind the shelves and seemed to be stubbornly stuck on something he refused to dig out and correct. He wiped down the rest of the tabletop. At least the pool shed was cleaner than the usual insect graveyard he expected except for the dusty window. But it was cool and gloomy and he didn't have to look at too-tiny lime-green swimwear hugging an ass as perfect and biteable as--

"Ask the Don. You're the citywide enforcer, not me. I'm just running your gang while you're busy with the Home Office."

Patrick huffed. "Just for once, Soul Punk would like to be Soul-Privy-to-the-Don's-Plans."

"Yeah, well that name doesn't exactly roll off the tongue to make the clans nervous, does it?"

**

Pete stood on the shoulders of giants.

More specifically, he sat. On the shoulders of two six-foot-plus supermodels who hadn't yet made it big, but had made it to the club last night and followed him home to party. They were currently in the deep end of the pool, supporting Pete as they walked--very slowly, and in unison--around the deep end, celebrating his win at the Cannonball contest. With one spandex-clad ass-cheek on a bony shoulder apiece, Pete lorded over his subjects with sunny satisfaction.

At the other end of the pool, casually leaning against the pillar of one of the pergolas, Joe raised his eyebrows when Pete waved to him. He tapped his wrist once, then tugged on his ear and jerked his head towards the house. A beat later, Joe turned and started making his way up the hill towards the villa. The sun went behind a cloud and Pete's perch suddenly felt precarious.

He pushed away the shade. At least he could still mess with the pool boy. _Look at me_. He flexed his biceps, tightened his abs. _This is what people want_. The smuggled booze and the party drugs are just icing on the cake. He peered down at one of the models. "You love me, don't you?" He pulled his lips back in a smile full of teeth he knew dazzled, even if the sparkle didn't make it all the way up to his eyes.

She slanted a glance up at him. Her pupils were dilated, eyes with a slightly glassy glaze to them. Plump lips hung slightly open in confusion and he spied the tab melting on her tongue. She blew him a kiss, though, and ran her nails up the inside of his thigh. Her companion cooed. "Of course we love you, Pete," she simpered up at him, licking her fingers as she skated them up his other thigh, finding that place that made his balls jump.

"Are you sure that guy from Elite Modeling is here?" Tab-tongue asked.

"Sure, he'll be around, baby. I always look out for my friends." Fucking hell. That lieutenant's kid, whatsisname, was using the 'I'm a modeling agent' line again. On _Pete's_ girls! He'd remember that guy's name any minute and go punch him on behalf of--he looked down. He'd remember _her_ name any minute, too. He would. He cast a smug look in the direction of the bar, waiting to see the envy on the snarky pool boy's face.

The shady spot behind the bar was deserted. No one was there to witness the adoration.

Just like that, Pete toppled backward off his throne, his pride deflated, landing in the water amidst cheers that suddenly rang hollow.

**  
Patrick rolled out a keg to appease the masses while he closed the bar in favor of pool maintenance. Which was really just Patrick hiding in the shed. Alone and quiet. "It's been hours," he muttered. "Don't these people have homes? Lives?" The pool filter was burning itself out trying to filter all their crud--Patrick could hear it groaning (louder in the pool shed away from the screams of revelers).

He stared at the chlorine and fertilizer. Rows upon rows of tubs of chemicals and sacks of shit. Who'd need any fertilizer with the amount of bullshit being generated outside, he thought. And that stupid floral tape from somebody's ill-advised craft project seemed to be caught everywhere--under shit sacks, between tubs of chlorine, wrapped around jug handles. There were scissors on the work table--he could just chop it up into little bits, sweep it into the trash and--

"I don't 'perform' for them."

The voice made Patrick jump two feet. He swore his hair brushed the ceiling and he was not a tall man. He turned to find the bullshit king himself framed by the light coming in from the doorway.

Patrick may have jumped out of his skin but he lucked out and stuck the landing and managed to not fall over. "Huh?" So much for sticking the landing. Not when the afternoon light was wrapping itself around Pete's lean legs and filtering through the ridiculous gold lame robe that hung open off his shoulders.

"_They_ perform for _me_," Wentz said. His jaw stuck out in a mulish expression. The light coming in was just enough for Patrick to see the tension in his shoulders. Coiled and simmering with--anger?

Patrick narrowed his eyes. What did Wentz, of all people, have to be angry about? Unless he finally noticed the pack of losers outside sucking down his alcohol and fucking in his cabana and helping themselves to Pete's generosity, his limo rides, his party bus.

His body.

"They like me because I know how to have fun." He jerked a thumb towards the door, where outside someone had started up a chant that went, "Pete! Pete! Pete!" (and more than a few participants were having trouble remembering the words)

Patrick arched an eyebrow. "Yeah?"

Wentz took two more steps towards him. "I'm not some stuck-up, starched, bow-tied-too-uptight--"

Patrick stepped back. The work table bumped up against his tailbone. "You just double-barrel punned me!"

"Yeah?" Wentz arched an eyebrow in perfect imitation of Patrick's own sardonic expression. "You look strong enough to take both barrels." His gaze went to half-mast and Patrick suddenly saw just why so many people followed Pete home. "Or one really thick one."

_Oh, this means war_. "Didn't anyone ever tell you not to go to war without knowing what the other guy is packing?" Patrick let one hand drop to his hip, his splayed fingers framing his crotch. The semi growing there would only emphasize the point, even if he felt the companion blush creeping up his stomach and chest.

Wentz took the bait, his gaze dropping where Patrick directed it. In return, he flicked the ends of his ridiculous lame robe. The lime green tropical print drew Patrick's eyes and that banana leaf right at the seam took on epic proportions. Wentz gave a low chuckle and the sound devastated Patrick's defenses. "Shots fired, pool boy."

Patrick licked suddenly parched lips. "Patrick," he said. "My name is Patrick."

"I know. I looked you up your first day. My pool is my good-time place. Can't have just any tool taking care of my good-time place, even if he's got...top-quality equipment."

Wentz looked him up? Patrick spared a silent thanks to Andy for forging his credentials. He dragged his gaze back up away from Pete's crotch. Bad idea, since he took the scenic route up past the tattoo, up and down the slopes of the pecs, got tangled in the forest of inked thorns and chest hair, lost himself in the lips, before finally making it to the hot whiskey eyes.

_I am in so much trouble_, he thought.

**

"But do you have the skills to back it up?" Pete was rapidly getting in over his head, here, as evidenced by that second-rate comeback. He hadn't been thinking straight when the wordplay started--it just happened. He was so high from his grand entrance--_I made the pool boy jump!_\--that he let himself off-leash.

Now he was moving towards the deep end of the pool, where the water seemed to spill over the edge to infinity. The swoop in his stomach reminded him of the first time he'd ever dived into the infinity pool and surfaced close enough to the edge. Young enough to have fallen under the spell of a serious-eyed young lieutenant in the Black Parade while their clan heads discussed business and the younger members enjoyed guaranteed hospitality. And, Pete thought, maybe some genuine friendship.

Not long after, his father had shut that down. _You're a means to an end for him, Peter. Everyone is a means to someone else's end_.

_What's his end-game_, Pete wondered, _and how am I the means to it?_ The pool boy--Patrick--turned down his money earlier, didn't fawn over him, and hadn't yet asked him for anything.

"I have _alllll_ the skills to take care of your _good-time place_." The knowing, pool-boy smirk came back. Patrick leaned against the workbench, his hands hooked in the belt loops of his tailored pants while Pete fought to keep his eyes from wandering south.

_He's not talking about the pool anymore_, Pete thought. His legs went tingly and warm and loose. _I'm sinking here_, he thought. "I don't let just anybody have access to my _good-time place_." _Did I really just say that?_ Not since that Black Parade boy had he been this close--or this affected--by someone who wasn't six feet tall and had boobs.

Patrick was staring at his lips. "I take very good care of _good-time places_." He lifted his gaze and Pete drowned in blue-green. "Try me."

Pete's eyes fluttered closed. His heart hammered in his chest and goosebumps flared up all over his skin, the heat from Patrick's body doing nothing to chase away the shivers that started from his solar plexus and moved outward. _What means am I to what end for him_, he wondered.

_What if I don't care?_

He closed the gap between them. Now he could feel everything. They were of a height, so his sun-heated body brushed against the pool boy's in all the complimentary spots. "Could you?" he asked, gazing down at Patrick's lips. "Take good care of me?"

"Are you inviting me?" Now it was Patrick's turn to close his eyes. Dark gold lashes lay against his pale skin and Pete's whole body shuddered.

Patrick breathed in and the brush of their bodies against each other's sent sparks through Pete at every contact point. _Am I really doing this?_

"Yes."

Patrick took his consent as the invitation it was and sealed the deal with his mouth against Pete's.

Kissing boys was just like Pete remembered.

Kissing this boy was like nothing Pete had ever felt before.

Patrick wrapped his arms around him, light brushes against his bare skin under the robe, hands traveling down until they cupped Pete's ass cheeks. His touch firmed, pulling Pete against him. Pete had lost count of the hands that had been on him over time, but he couldn't remember the last hands that felt this way--the words weren't there for him to describe and he couldn't concentrate on anything but sensation while Patrick's fingers moved along his skin.

Pete made a small noise in the back of his throat. One small movement brought his hips against Patrick's and lightning shot through him. He was hard and sensitive to every point of contact. Another small movement from the other man and Pete saw stars. Sudden greed to taste Patrick's skin followed and Pete pushed his tongue past the other man's plush lips, licking into him. He braced himself with hands on either side of the workbench. His hips moved on their own, following the swivels of Patrick's.

Patrick gave a little sigh and leaned back further against the workbench. Pete didn't remember ever being so aware of every tiny motion from a partner or having it affect him so much. They stayed like that, grinding slowly against each other, hips grazing each other in increasingly sensitive places. He shivered again when Patrick's hands moved under the fabric of his swim trunks. He moved his mouth away from Patrick's to trail nips along the other's smooth-shaven jawline until he reached a spot just beneath one pink-shelled ear. He stuck the tip of his tongue out and tasted salt-sweat and craved more.

He lifted one hand to cup Patrick's jaw. The silk of that stupid bow-tie brushed his knuckles and he worked his fingers in between the twists of slippery fabric until they loosened, then went after the top two buttons of that dress shirt. He followed his fingers with his mouth until his hand dropped again to Patrick's waist.

Patrick fumbled one-handed with his belt and together, they worked his belt loose and his fly open. Heat radiated from Patrick's crotch and Pete wondered if he'd singe his fingertips. But then Patrick's other hand slid around Pete's hipbone to caress the divot there and nudge the waistband of his swimsuit down and when his cool fingers brushed Pete's cock, he couldn't swallow back his harsh groan at the sensory overload. He bucked into Patrick's hand as a shudder rippled through his entire body.

His fingers traced the hot, damp cotton covering Patrick's erection and he was surprised to feel them shake at the mere thought of touching Patrick's naked flesh. He hadn't ever done more than fool around with another guy without a girl between them. _Nothing this intense with anyone_, he admitted silently as Patrick's fingers, sticky with sweat, danced over the crown of his cock and he thought he might black out with the need to have Patrick take him in hand. His whole body was tense and shaking with want.

The scent of male sweat and traces of Patrick's cologne filled Pete's head and he had to stop for a minute and just breathe him in, mouth open and panting for a decent breath while blood pounded in his ears. _Really gonna do this. Really doing this_.

Only one way out, and that was to go all-in.

**

Patrick wasn't certain when the mood changed, but he sensed the change in the subtle current between them, humming like electricity that changed in frequency. His head was already swimming and he'd concluded that Pete Wentz not only dressed like a wizard out of a hilariously bad 80's fantasy B-movie _(slash-porno flick)_ but might actually _be_ some sort of wizard _(porn-wizard)_ because Patrick was firmly under his spell.

But then the energy shifted. The verbal parry-and-riposte escalated to the physical and the way Pete's skin jumped at Patrick's touch might have been magic to Patrick, but it felt like wild magic, wielded by someone who'd just picked up a wand for the first time. Pete's fingers were clumsy, hesitant, as they fumbled at Patrick's waistband. "How--do you want me?"

The question was supposed to sound low and sexy, and on the surface, it did. Patrick's dick swelled in response to the ticklish vibrations of Pete's voice along his skin. But the thrum came with a thread of something underneath, and try as his dick might protest, Patrick couldn't ignore it. How many times had a playboy like Pete asked that question, and how many times had it _not_ been asked of him?

_What the hell, Stump? When did you start thinking of Wentz as anything but a fuckboy?_

Patrick tilted his head. Pete wouldn't meet his eyes. Instead, he turned around and arched back against Patrick. Patrick's dick stood to attention at the perfect swell of Pete's ass, but the rest of Patrick held back.

"C'mon, Patrick." His voice resonated, just a little too aggressive for Patrick's ears. "Wanna fuck me like I'm first prize?"

He pulled Pete against him so that the other man's back was flush with his chest. He sighed at the contact. Trailed his hand down Pete's chest. "Where did that come from?"

Pete tossed his head to the side, flinging his long hair in Patrick's face to slant a defiant glance back at him. "Just do it, already, pool boy." Pete's eyes shimmered in the dusty light coming from the window.

Patrick stopped. This didn't feel right. "Who are you talking to?" Pete clutched at his thighs. Instead of soft, though, his fingers were tense, wired. Trigger-happy. "Hey."

Patrick angled his body to the side to stare into Pete's eyes without cricking his neck. "Hey," he repeated. "You haven't done this before, have you?"

Pete's features darkened. "The fuck you say?"

"I mean with a guy."

Pete began to squirm in his grasp. "If you're going to be a cocktease--"

"Hush." Patrick tightened his two-armed grasp around Pete's body, sealing the other man against him. It stabilized his own sudden unsteadiness as well as Pete's. He nosed Pete's hair out of the way to kiss the spot where his neck met his shoulder. "Shh. There's no shame here."

"I'm not stupid. I know how it works. I just never got around to it."

Patrick's stomach gave an involuntary twist. _No no no_, he thought. _I don't want to see more than what's there. It's bad enough that he's hot. Don't make him deep, too. What if the Don--oh, this is not good_.

Pete arched against him.

Oh, this is _so_ good. "Unf." Patrick said the word into Pete's honey-toned skin and tasted the salt-and-sun flesh under his lips again.

"You--" Pete ended the aborted thought on a bit-off moan as he arched against him. Not trying to escape, but pressing back for more--more contact, more friction--and Patrick was happy to oblige.

"You," Patrick said firmly. He tilted his head to kiss Pete's nape. "Are _not_ stupid." Loosened his embrace to let his hands trail up and down Pete's chest, dipping them low and lower until his hand worked inside Pete's swimsuit again. He realized it was a true statement. "I meant it." He cupped Pete's balls with gentle fingers. The underworld wasn't exactly known for its acceptance of diversity (beyond diversifying where the money came from). Even without acting on it, it was still a heavy burden for Pete to carry this around in the face of his position in his clan.

Pete whimpered and squirmed in Patrick's grip and Patrick brought his free hand up to Pete's jaw and turned his head until their faces touched. "But if this is some sort of self-hate or punishment, we stop now." He punctuated his words with a slight twist of his fingers inside Pete's swimsuit.

Pete shuddered and shook his head. "Please..."

"Please what?"

"Just...do whatever."

Patrick groaned. "Christ. No wonder they all want a piece of you," he muttered, sliding Pete's swimsuit down his hips.

"They like me because I show them a good time." Pete turned in his arms. "I'll show you a good time, too."

_No, baby_, Patrick thought. He'd have punched himself for thinking it but his hands were too busy getting tangled in the hot nest of Pete's crotch. "I said I'd take care of you." He tangled his fingers in Pete's hair and brought his head down for another kiss. He maneuvered them so that Pete's back was against the work table. "Let _me_ show _you_ a good time."

Fuck, he was in deep.

Consequences flitted all the way out of his head as he dropped to his knees, taking Pete's trunks down with him. Pete made a little whimpering sound as Patrick dragged his bottom lip over the crown of his cock. He flicked his gaze up to see Pete staring down at him, head tilted to one side, eyes wide and entranced, mouth soft and insouciant. Patrick took him all the way in and the whimper turned into a strangled groan. He soothed his hands along Pete's flanks and brought them around his backside, fingers tickling the valley between his ass cheeks. Pete arched his back into Patrick's questing fingers in a violent, enthusiastic move and Patrick's head spun.

He gave Pete a squeeze and popped off his cock to stand back up. "God, Pete--turn around."

Pete nodded, the dazed, hypnotic look still in his eyes. "Condom," he murmured. "Right pocket."

Patrick was going to hell for this. "Lube?"

Pete shook his head, the ends of his hair tickling. "Condom's lubricated. Isn't that enough?"

"Not for what I want to do to you."

"Nngggh." Pete ground back against him.

Patrick's eyes roved over the workbench, finally coming to rest on the two giant bottles of aloe vera after-sun gel, their pump dispensers temptingly close. _It's not perfect, but it'll do_. He reached forward and coated the fingers of one hand with the bright green slippery substance. The other, he wrapped around Pete's chest and held him up. "Your first real time should be slow," he murmured, sliding his slick fingers into the cleft of Pete's ass. "Lazy." He teased and felt tightness. He moved his other palm down to take Pete's cock in his fist. "Somewhere you can spread out." He performed a light twist around Pete's cock. "Enjoy every bit of it."

Pete sighed and shuddered. Patrick felt the give he was looking for but--"Fuck, you're tight." And in his still-partly-clothed state, he was rutting against Pete's hip, the friction of cotton a poor substitute for anything. But Pete's skin still tasted salty and addictive and Pete's moans were traveling along Patrick's nerve endings and every tiny sigh he uttered made Patrick want to give him the world in the form of another twist of his hand, another finger, finding _that_ place--_there_.

Pete's head dropped back, his hair cascading over Patrick's shoulder. "Fuck--do that again."

Hot liquid joy--that was the only way to describe it--washed through Patrick. Pete was so wonderfully responsive--he crooked his fingers, danced the digits of the other hand to catch a bead of pre-come--that Patrick had to wonder if anyone had ever spent time on Pete at all.

So he did it again. Because he wanted Pete to keep melting under his hands.

Pete squirmed.

"Trick, please--"

"I can't." _You really can't_, he told himself. Not standing up in a pool shed at a completely uncomfortable angle.

Pete begged.

He rocked down on Patrick's fingers like an old pro. 'Never done it' might have been a technicality but for the tight resistance. "I can take it," he murmured.

_No, you really can't_. Patrick didn't say it aloud. "I know you want to. But I wasn't kidding about laying you down." He nipped at Pete's ear. "Just relax. Let me make you feel good right now."

Pete brought one hand up to tangle in Patrick's hair and pull him close. His other hand tried to find Patrick's crotch and Patrick appreciated the effort, shoving himself once or twice into Pete's awkwardly-turned palm, but his own pleasure took more of a backseat with every passing moment. It became more and more important for him to give Pete the orgasm of his life.

Pete's head lay on his shoulder and their cheeks were pressed together, Pete's harsh breaths right next to his ear. Patrick went for a combination move and added a third gel-slicked finger at the same time he wrapped his fingers around the shaft of Pete's cock in a tight rippling motion and angled his hand in just the right way to reach Pete's spot. Pete's hips bucked again and he turned his head into Patrick's face. It was too awkward of an angle for them to kiss, but Patrick flicked his tongue out to rasp along the other man's stubbled jaw before nipping just below his ear. He followed up his move with a warm palm pressing Pete's cock against his stomach and thrummed the fingers of his other hand over the supple bump of Pete's prostate.

"You like that?" Patrick purred over Pete's moans. Pete's hips stuttered back and forth as if he didn't know which way to go.

"God _yes_. Trick--" There it was. That nickname again.

Patrick's solar plexus plunged at hearing it fall from Pete's lips. He bit Pete's ear. "Good boy. You gonna come for me?"

Magic words. Pete sagged. He shot out hot and sticky over Patrick's hand, tightening around his fingers as a long, low, "Fuuuuuuuuck," dragged out of him.

He let Patrick's hair go, taking a few strands with him as he dropped forward, barely holding himself up against the work table. He put his other hand over Patrick's, still holding his cock against his stomach and pressed, his fingers just shy of threading through Patrick's. It was an oddly vulnerable move. "What about--"

"Shh. This was for you." Patrick withdrew the fingers of his other hand and pulled the bar towel out of where it had been tucked in his belt. His hard-on raged at the exquisite point between pleasure and pain but it was worth it. He rested his sweaty forehead against Pete's shoulder. Pete tossed him a sultry, sideways look that read to Patrick like half amazement and half addiction. Patrick wanted to drown in it.

Instead, he handed Pete the towel. He took it almost shyly. "Thank you, Patrick."

It had nothing to do with the heat or the sweat of exertion, but Patrick was melting. He could tell by the gooey taffy nature of the way his body peeled away from Pete's. _Fuck I am in so much trouble_, he thought, fumbling up the buttons on his shirt as best as he could. The dusty silence between them stretched and Patrick had to bite back the urge to fill it with promises and plans for a future he had no authority to plan.

"How much?"

Patrick froze. "Excuse me?" Realization dawned. The sweat on his face could turn to icicles with the chill in his tone and the no-chill stiffening his body.

"For your silence." The softness was gone from Pete's expression.

Patrick narrowed his eyes. "Oh _fuck_ you _and_ the sea-horse you rode in on!"

Pete pulled his swimsuit back up as if he didn't still have aloe vera gel greasing his ass crack and smears of come still on his stomach. "Look, I know how the world works. You got one up on me. You know a secret and you'd be a fool not to use it to your advantage. So how much for you to keep that secret?

Patrick's jaw dropped. "You arrogant son of a bitch! You really think--"

Pete pressed his lips together in a thin hard line. "I don't have to think. Like I said, I know how this world works, and if you don't, you got sold a bill of goods."

"Fuck you, Wentz," Patrick said through his own clenched teeth as he buckled his belt. "Keep your secret and keep your money." He shoved hard on the shed door, letting in the sunlight. He turned. "Use it to buy some better friends."

Only after he slammed the shed door behind him did he register that the hardness at his mouth never reached Pete's eyes.

**

Guilt and shame and anger were all good friends of Pete's. He waited a few minutes before slipping out of the shed and coming around to the cabana side. He slipped into one of the shower cubicles in the changing areas and turned the cold water on himself, washing on armor as the slippery residue swirled down the drain. He was halfway out of the changing area when he heard the distinct moans of people having sex. It wasn't the first time he'd walked in on someone, and more than once the interruption turned into a threesome.

This time, when he rounded the corner of the cabinets and saw the girl with her legs wrapped around her partner's waist, he snarled. "Have a little self-respect, assholes," he growled as he stiff-armed the exit door open. Without looking in either direction or acknowledging the "Hey, Petes!" he shrugged out of his robe. He didn't look in the direction of the shaded bar as he bent for a shallow dive into the cold water and stayed under long enough to reach the clear Plexiglas of the infinity dropoff and drown the remembered sensations of Patrick's hands on his skin. The view of the hillside, plunging deep into the valley below cast a watery blue over the yellowed scrub, but behind the water, it remained an empty desert.

When he resurfaced, the cold of the water shocking enough of his skin to fill the empty places, Joe stood to the opposite side of the pool from the bar and tapped his wristwatch. Fucking great. Pete forced a careless smile onto his face and tried not to look towards the bar.

A curvy woman swam up to him. "Hi, Pete. Which club is lit tonight?"

The club. _A_ club. _Any_ club. That was exactly what he needed. Get lit. Get smashed. Lose himself in music. Forget the scents of aloe and dust and pool--boy. "Infinity on High," he said. "Tonight is the night to rave." He scanned the crowd. "Alter moods, alter minds, change the world, yeah? Tell your friends."

She kicked her legs just enough to raise her body up out of the water partway and plant a wet kiss on his cheek. And he tried not to think about a sweat-slick jaw that smelled of _Dior Homme_.

Joe had stopped midway up the hill and was watching Pete, a troubled set to his mouth. Pete turned his head away from Joe's gaze and chucked the model under the chin (while trying not to sink too low in the water). "Be back in a bit, babe." He thought about telling her to get another drink, keep herself soft and hazy, but he didn't want anyone going near the bartender until he had a chance to put the smug bastard in his place. "Get some sun," he said instead. "Keep that gorgeous tan."

He eschewed the ladder in favor of pushing himself up over the side of the pool, showing off his toned biceps and shoulders, one strong thigh pushing him out of the pool and upright in a smooth, effortless flex. Though who he thought he was flexing for, he couldn't say. Just another handjob in a dark corner, that's all it was. He started up the hill, water sluicing off his body with each step and leaving every soft place where certain pool boys might be with a hardened carapace over top of it. The water droplets dried and left a mirror coating of armor. _Not my fault if somebody else holds on too tight to illusions_.

At the entrance to the villa's cool interior, Joe handed him a towel and a robe that wasn't his favorite gold lame. Pete frowned, his lower lip going out in a pout, but Joe shot him a look that said, _don't argue_, and opened the door for him to enter the house.

"My son, the Good-Time Guy." Peter Senior's false-hearty tone carried across the floor of the large entertainment area, where the big-screen TV displayed a boxing match via closed-circuit from Vegas. In front of the screen, three men with clipboards and smartphones made notations on spreadsheets and tapped screens, generating odds for the spreads.

Pete fixed his mouth into an insouciant smirk. "Dear old Dad." His stomach clenched at the words. Dear old Dad who hadn't lifted a finger when _she_\-- He reached for his flask and found it gone, the cotton navy not at all the usual properly-stocked pockets of his gold lame robe. Fucking Joe.

"I'd ask how business is, but I see you're conducting pleasure out there."

"Pleasure _is_ my business." Out of the corner of his eye, Pete saw Joe take up a discreet position near the door, opposite his own father, who perched at the mini-bar and peered at a laptop screen. Joe avoided his glare.

His father raised his eyebrows. "I don't see a single client out there." Pete dreaded the day his own features would start to take on the pinched disapproval of his father's, but worse was the shriveling that would happen inside, already happening to Pete's daring to do something when he saw something he really wanted (a rosebud mouth above a dapper bow-tie)--_Not the time_. Senior's mouth hardened. "I don't see your angle, son."

Right. _Everybody's a means to somebody else's end_. "The picnic attracts the ants," Pete retorted. "That's the means."

"To what end, Peter? All I see are parasites."

Pete saw _people_ out there, but whatever. "I guess I'll explain it if you need me to, Dad." He cocked his head. "If you're going to be the one everybody _calls_ for their parties, you have to know how to _have_ a party. It's a shocking concept, I know, but this kind of thinking is gonna revolutionize Clandestine--"

His father gave an exasperated sigh. "My patience only extends so far before it becomes a weakness." He shifted through the ledgers on the table.

Pete shrugged. "Clandestine doesn't have weaknesses, Dad. You got rid of everyone who--"

A thick, leather-bound ledger slammed down, making two of the bookies who weren't supposed to be paying attention jump. "Watch your tongue, boy," Peter Senior hissed. "You have no idea what I've sacrificed to keep this clan strong! And I didn't do it for you to just lounge around and _darken your tan!_"

"Then it's a good thing I do a little more than that, yeah? I finished closing out my month on the Strip last night. Did you not see the folder on the desk in the study before you summoned me up here to give me static about not closing out the month on time for Mister Trohman?" He spared a glance for the accountant, whose expression clearly said, _Leave me out of it._

Peter senior sighed. "Pete. Son. You could do so much more. Think about those wasted opportunities down there. While you focus on one or two whales, there are countless minnows--"

Pete scratched the back of his head, already halfway checked out. He'd heard this rant before, and it was inspired by his father's other lieutenant. Kathryn was ambitious, driven, visionary, and sat next to his father at formal dinners. In a seat that did _not_ belong to _her_. A seat where _she_ should be--_No, we aren't thinking about that. We're thinking about sunlight on water, tight swimsuits, bright smiles, flashing club lights._

_Swimming-pool eyes and dapper bow-ties_.

"The folder's on the desk in the study, Dad. My spreadsheets will tell you whether a ton of whales weighs more than a ton of minnows."

There was a small noise from Mr. Trohman, but a larger noise from Joe, who clicked open the door leading back outside with a firm, "Thank you, gentlemen," and an even firmer stare in Pete's direction.

Pete took the message reluctantly, still spoiling for a fight. Even though he knew he stood little chance of surviving one. If you're gonna pick a fight, might as well pick a tough one that'll end fast. As he passed Joe on the way out, the other man murmured a warning. "Whatever it is, today's not the day and you are not the one."

Joe's father, on the other hand, scratched his graying head and mumbled, _"But they're both a ton..."_

**

Pete followed his lieutenant--hah! His _lieutenant_, as if he were the boss of anything--down the hill, but veered off towards the side path before he could get close enough for the revelers to notice him. Now he sort of understood why Joe had given him the navy robe instead of the gold lame one. Joe wasn't really a lieutenant. Lieutenants worked for you. Joe was his best--maybe his _only_\--real friend. Real enough to notice when Pete no longer followed him and switched his own route to intercept so they both passed under the pergolas and behind the tangle of landscaping that separated a fire pit from the pool area, and a rough stone path that led to the grassy terrace at the edge of the hillside.

There, Pete plopped down on the wooden bench next to an urn filled with flowers--an unkempt riot of orange-gold California poppies that spilled out of the planter and into the bed itself next to a small stone statue of a dancing angel. It wasn't a feature to impress guests or conceal security, and it hadn't been designed by a professional, but by Pete's own hands and hard work. Pete stuck a finger in the dirt of the urn and nodded once. He brushed some of the flowers away from a little stone frog with a silly smile that hid beneath the leaves, then straightened. She would have loved this spot. The dancer, the frog, her favorite flower, and a spot to rest away from prying eyes.

And if she knew what he'd said to the pool boy in the shed, she'd have looked at Pete with an expression that even the silly frog couldn't brighten.

He looked away from the frog and sighed. "Joe, do you think that everybody's only out for themselves?"

"Sir?"

He shot a frown at the curly-haired younger man. "What's this 'Sir' shit? I'm not my dad, and you're not yours."

"That's...not my call to make, Pete." Joe's soft tone could only soften the truth behind the words so much. Pete was always going to be the one to decide when they were friends versus when they were boss and henchman. And Clandestine hadn't gotten where it was by being a big bunch of bro-buds.

"I did something," Pete said. "I tried to be what I'm supposed to be and it--I fucked it up."

Joe sat down on the bench next to him and together, they gazed out into the valley below. "Your henchman would tell you to walk around like you meant to do it. The boss is never wrong, and when the boss is wrong, see rule number one."

"And what would my friend tell me?"

"Be what you want to be, not what you're supposed to be. And when you're wrong, say you're sorry and make it right."

**

Patrick was still seething when the Idiot Brigade evaporated into stretch Hummers and the party bus and the navy blue Lincoln that carted around the Party Man himself. _Paint a target on him and save some gas money_, Patrick thought. Rather uncharitably.

He allowed himself to be grumpy. Every time he had to open up the door to the pool shed, in addition to the tang of fertilizer and the chemical spice of chlorine, he smelled the undertones of musk and sex. Sex he didn't personally get to have. And it was making him feel grumpy and a little used. Maybe he should have just bent Pete over and let the surface be the truth and--

His phone buzzed with a text from Andy. _You do not want to do that_.

Seconds later, he was all the way in the shed with the phone pressed to his ear. "Whatever are you talking about, Hurley?"

"I can see the look on your face from here, Stump. You're looking like you're two seconds away from reaching for the present I left you under the bar in the holster. And _that_," Andy said primly, "is only for dire emergencies."

"But--"

"_Dire_. Emergencies. Now tell me what you found."

Patrick scowled. "Tubs of chlorine, which is stupid because this is a saltwater system and their old pool boy must have been a dumbshit of cosmic proportions." He took a breath and scented aloe and couldn't not think of melting orgasms. And assholery afterward. "And sacks of shit. The biggest one being Wentz himself." He stared at the aloe vera gel and closed his eyes against the memory of little sounds in the dusty gloom and tight heat surrounding his fingers. "And some stupid fucking arts and crafts amateur who doesn't know how to use floral tape."

"Floral tape?" Andy's voice filled with disbelief. "Who does arts and crafts in a pool shed?"

"I know, right?" Patrick put a hand on his hip. "The Don has to be mistaken about how important this guy is."

"Maybe not." Andy's tone grew pensive. "Hey Patrick, take a picture of that floral tape for me, wouldja?"

"Sure. But since you can see me, you must be able to see that there are no more idiots to make drinks for or fish out of the water before the bubbles stop coming up. So will you send me a ride to get out of this place? I really need to go off-duty." _And maybe cry because the stupid playboy made me feel a little slutty and I didn't even get to put out_.

"Fifteen minutes tops. Send me that picture."

**

Today, Peter Senior looked as if there were heavy things weighing on his shoulders. Pete waited patiently while his father finished up a conversation with an enforcer. "Be discreet," he said. "Take care of it in the middle of our territory. Turf skirmishes attract the Don's attention and the last thing we need is that Soul Punk nosing around in our business."

"But the cops--"

"I can pay off the cops. It's harder to bullshit the Don."

Pete stayed still, this time grateful for the navy that allowed him to blend into the woodwork as much as he could. So his father was afraid of someone bigger. Or if not afraid, then certainly wary. But that name--Soul Punk.

_Where is she? Where's my wife?_

_We're sorry Sir--she didn't--_

_No...No!_

_No, Peter, she's alive but--she's gone._

_Where did she go, Trohman? Where is my wife?_

_I'm sorry Sir. That was the price the Don demanded. The Soul Punk came for her._

"Peter!"

Pete jumped and landed back in the present. His father stared at him. A stranger with cold eyes, who maybe didn't remember that for all of Clandestine's power, the Soul Punk and the Don were still out there with even more power. And his father refused to do anything about it. "Sorry, what?" He blinked. "You sent for me. I was just waiting for you to finish up."

"Daydreaming?" His father glowered.

Pete put the mask back on and offered his father a smile full of teeth and no eyes. "Imagining all the ways you're going to tell me what a great job I've been doing."

Peter Senior sighed. "I told you I wanted this month's take to be inspiring. And what I saw inside of it did _not_ inspire me."

Pete set his mouth and widened his eyes. "But--I put it in a nice watercolor Hallmark card with an inspirational saying and everything!" He clutched his chest. "I'm hurt, Daddy. Didn't you like my pretty drawing?"

Peter Senior narrowed his eyes, exasperation clearly showing for his clown son. "You've been bringing in the same amount for two years, Peter. Month after month. It shows a distinct lack of ambition on your part."

Pete bit his lip. "I'm risk-averse right now." It was a nicer word than 'lazy.' "I'm playing long odds for big payoffs."

"How long are those odds supposed to be? There's a time when you cut your losses, son." His father stacked the papers in front of him, more out of a nervous habit than anything else. "If you can't grow this Clan's influence or profits, then you aren't pulling your weight in the organization." He rose from the table and came around behind Pete. Pete knew better than to move. "I can't carry dead weight in this organization, Pete. Even if it's my own son."

_Or your wife?_ There was no alcohol or party pill or distracting cleavage or impending orgasm (thank god because ew, never around his own old man) to keep the thought from sliding up to the forefront of his mind. "My territory is stable," he said, hating the way his voice quavered. "I have long-term clients. Guaranteed orders." He knew the exact noses it went up, and how much of it was vomited up in the morning. "I think if I--"

Peter laughed. "I think we know better than to let you do the thinking. Give Kathryn the details of your supply chain."

Heat flared in Pete's chest. His father's insult hurt. Yeah, he knew he wasn't the smartest guy, The lieutenants--among them Kathryn--made sure to remind him of that regularly. And Joe--he listened to Joe. _Listen to Joe_, she said on the night she disappeared. No--the night the Soul Punk came for her. _He loves you so much. He'll help you survive_. "I'm not really a details guy," he mumbled. "You know if I write 'em down I'll lose 'em."

"Do it this one time. And then hand them directly to Kathryn." His father's tone took on a patronizing mockery that burned Pete from the inside out. "Don't make Kathryn upset. I don't like it when Kathryn's upset, son. She's a valued and respected lieutenant who's shown unwavering loyalty to this clan, and I don't like it when she doesn't have all the information she wants."

"Well, I don't like it when her son tells my friends he's a modeling agent." Pete crossed his arms, understanding all too well the implication of his father's emphasis on Kathryn's position as opposed to his own. And he still couldn't remember her stupid son's name.

"You can get honeypots from anywhere in this city. And this is exactly what I'm talking about." His father's hand settled heavily on Pete's shoulder. "Kathryn's going to start auditing your processes more actively. She understands I can't have my own son be the weakest link in the organization."

Joe appeared at the terrace outside. The meeting was over. Joe opened the door and beckoned Pete with a subtle move of his hand.

Pete's stomach burned and his nerves twitched with words just under his tongue. He wanted to ask when he should expect his mother back, but those were words that would start a war he had no idea how to fight. So he followed Joe out the door and back into the sunlight.

The party went on without him. Girls wrestled on the shoulders of the guys who looked blissed-out by pussy being so close to the backs of their heads. Swimsuit tops were lost, more swimsuit tops were "lost" and the champagne bottles floated in the pool. Two steps behind Joe, Pete suddenly veered off towards the cabana and the pool house, not wanting to have to look at any of the merry-makers and see--in spite of his every effort to blind himself--how many of them saw the same thing his father saw?

**

Andy was a really good friend. He didn't once call Patrick on the fact that he spent most of the night drinking white wine and ranting about how Wentz thought he could just buy anyone he liked. He was kind enough also to pretend like Patrick hadn't been dancing around admitting that they'd done naked-time things together. _Andy is a really good friend_.

Andy was a really good friend because he was there at four in the morning with ibuprofen and Gatorade as he dropped Patrick off at the employee gate of the villa with yet another crisp bow-tie and starched shirt with a power bar and encouraging words. "The Don won't need you to stay there for too much longer, I suspect."

"Nobody ever suspects the Don," Patrick quipped. "Of anything. That's why the Don is the Don."

"And nobody ever suspects the pool boy, either. That's why you're the Soul Punk." Andy patted his shoulder, then gave him a shove. "Now go serve good drinks to terrible people."

He wanted to serve a terrible drink--a bad mojito--to a good person--the person he thought he might have seen under Pete Wentz's skin. Instead, he cleaned the pool and flushed out the filter, grimacing at the gray water spilling down the hillside. At least the plants would have something to drink. And when the inevitable avalanche of dumbassery appeared, he was waiting in the shade of the bar, his professional mask firmly in place.

Patrick had been scanning the revelers, looking for Wentz for too long. _It's for the job_, he told himself. Not for the tight ass in lime-green spandex or the bright grin or the sun-kissed, toned skin. He dumped the last of the margaritas into a no-spill cup for the guy in front of him with the fuzzy chest still sticky with the spills from his three others and scanned again. No Wentz. _Little fucker ditched his own party_, he thought rather ungraciously.

Patrick wondered if maybe the other man copped to the realization that none of these idiots were here for him.

_No, _I'm_ the idiot that's here for him_.

No sign of Wentz the entire day. The only break Patrick had in the relentless cavalcade of dipshittery was Andy, requesting via text more pictures of the pool shed. Patrick dutifully fulfilled the requests, photographing the scene of the crime that was his most recent sexual activity (or lack thereof). _And there's where I sucked his dick, and that's where I lubed up three fingers and found his sweet spot, and ooh--there's a spot that might be dried come on the floor but not mine because I didn't get to come because there was no way I was popping anybody's ass-cherry in a pool shed over sacks of shit and chlorine_.

_Oh, and _there's_ the spot where he offered me money for it_.

He sent Andy back a selfie of himself sucking on a lemon wedge.

That was the most intelligent thing he'd encountered all damn morning and it was looking like the afternoon was shaping up to be just as stupid. But then he spotted Wentz's right-hand man. Trohman was coming down from the villa and wore a grim expression. Patrick put his phone away and stepped deeper into the shade when Trohman's eyes flicked over him. That one wasn't one to mess with. But Trohman didn't dwell on him. He headed right for the center of the pool patio and Patrick's withered little heart leaped in anticipation of the shit hitting the fan. Finally, somebody with an ounce of sanity and the firepower to back it up!

**

Joe Trohman knew that looking after Pete Wentz was a full-time job, even at the tender age when Pete was like the cool older brother who not only shared his toys but had fantastic ideas about what to do with them. Life in the clan taught him that things weren't so simple and that there were those who needed looking after, and those who did the looking, and none of it had anything to do with clan hierarchy. So Joe did the things that needed to be done when Pete might not be able to do them. Sometimes that involved cleaning up a mess Pete couldn't properly make bloody enough, taking the teeth Pete couldn't bring himself to take, and in this case, taking out the trash.

He stuck two fingers in his mouth and blew a sharp whistle that cut through the music and the laughter. "Get the fuck out! Now!"

One of the security ranged unobtrusively in the hedges took out a pistol and fired once in the air. The partygoers scattered, skittering up the hill and towards the driveway with shoes in hands, half-finished drinks, and one guy bolting out of the cabana with his pasty white ass cheeks flapping in the breeze. Seconds later, a naked woman ran out with a handful of clothes clutched in front of her.

With a troubled glance back towards the villa, Joe continued down the hill. Joe could reasonably count on finding his friend at his brooding spot at the edge of the cliff or holed up in his suite of rooms if not in the pool on days like this. In the meantime, he couldn't discount the presence of someone else in the places he'd explicitly kicked them out of. He ducked his head in the cabana and circled the changing area, eyes peeled for feet in the shower stalls, knocking open the doors of the toilets, and listening for movement around the corners. He spared a thought for the cleaning staff who'd have to mop up the dirty water and--_ugh_\--spent condom.

He re-emerged into the sunny day to find that he wasn't alone.

The pool boy stood behind the bar, wiping down the surface with one hand and stacking glasses with the other. _Neat trick_, Joe thought. _This one looks like he could walk and chew gum at the same time_. Joe stepped closer, sizing up the other man. As unobtrusive as they come on one level, but there was a certain style to him that looked more at home down on the Strip than under a tiki hut in somebody's backyard. A button-down shirt and a bow-tie with fingerless driving gloves suggested an upscale place, serving appletinis to trophy wives looking to get genteelly drunk enough to forget. Maybe taking one or two home for a night of regrets on her part and dreams on his and--_Jesus, Trohman, get your shit together or write that novel already_.

The pool boy looked up with a careful smile. "Party's over, I take it?"

"And you're still here."

The pool boy pulled a cup out of the clean stack and scooped in ice. "I'm the help. We're always here, but never seen." His hands moved beneath the bar top and he set the drink on the surface, sliding it towards Joe. "For your troubles, because you look like you've got a few."

"What is it?" Joe peered down into the glass and wondered if the pool boy used that same line on the trophy wives at his imaginary bar downtown.

"Just seltzer and lime with a little mint simple syrup. Take some of the heat out of the day for you."

Joe took a sip. His eyebrows went up. "S'good. Thanks."

"Full time job, looking after him, I expect."

Joe knew who the other man was talking about, and his tone was sympathetic, but he still bristled at hearing his own secret thoughts laid out so transparently. "I don't believe it's in your job description to comment on the boss," he said. "Enough people already think the worst of Pete Wentz."

The pool boy's expression darkened as he surveyed the damage from the party. "Seems like your problem is that Pete Wentz doesn't think the worst of enough people."

Joe took a second look at the guy in front of him. Short, slender but not in a willowy way. There was mass in the shoulders and upper arms that stretched beneath the fabric of his dress shirt. Joe's dad, ever a practical man, would have called this pool boy "five pounds of gunpowder in a three-pound bag."

He took up the net on the pole and came out from behind the bar. He fished out a high heeled shoe, a pair of men's swimming trunks, and multiple cups. "Lost and found?"

"Throw 'em over the cliffside, for all I care. Most of those assholes will never be back here ever again."

The pool boy tipped the net into the trash bin and thumped it once, then turned the corner to put away the net. Joe contemplated the other man's words while he finished his drink. "It's not like he needs a babysitter," he said. _Oh God, I'm turning into the depressed trophy wife_. He drifted over behind the pool house and scanned the grounds for stragglers. "Gonna check the pool shed."

"I literally just opened the door to put away the net. It's clear."

"All the same." Joe tipped open the door and glanced around. After the sun, the gloom was nearly impenetrable but the small space was indeed absent of any human bodies, though he couldn't make out much of anything else. Save the glint of the deadly tips of those Lawn Jarts Pete had insisted on having smuggled in past the port authority.

"Nobody but me and a few discreet spiders," the pool boy said. He was crouched down by the filter basket, taking the water samples and eyeing the colors of the chemical testing mix against the card.

"They did seem very polite when I opened the door. I apologized for disturbing them."

The pool boy glanced up and grinned. Joe realized he had nice eyes, for a pool boy. Very reminiscent of a sun-dappled lake. "You're good people," he said.

"I'm actually Joe."

"Patrick." He offered his gloved hand and Joe shook it.

Patrick thumped the filter basket against the side of a bucket and replaced it. "And you're still good people. He's lucky to have you have his back." He replaced the bucket in the trolley and moved to the next filter. "Does he deserve you?"

Joe raised his eyebrows. "Isn't that outside the pool boy job description?"

Patrick jerked his head back towards the bar. "It falls under 'bartender.' I multi-task."

"And do you multi-task in places like this a lot?" Part of Joe's problem was that, as the closest thing to a best friend that Pete had--while still mindful of the hierarchy--it was his duty and also his job to notice things. One of the things he'd noticed was Pete's fixation on this pool-slash-bartending "multi-tasker." A short enough exchange between the two of them, but one that set off Joe's finely-honed radar for "impending disasters involving Pete Wentz."

Pete's knack for finding troublesome situations from which he couldn't extricate himself was the source of the majority of _Joe's_ having to extricate Pete, much of the time from the shadows and with discretion, lest the other sharks scent blood in the water. And boy, was Pete a bleeder if left to his own devices.

Right now, Joe's job was to size up this pool boy and find out what his angle on Pete was. The chemistry between the two of them was enough to set Joe's whiskers twitching. Whatever Pete had gotten up to yesterday, it had to do with the pool boy. Joe considered it his duty to size up whether or not he'd given the friend-advice or the henchman-advice to Pete yesterday.

"Enough not to kiss and tell, if that's your concern. I'd have never made it past the front door if my lips were as open as my ears."

Joe looked--really looked--at the other man's mouth when he started to hum a familiar tune as he dried a shaker with a thin towel. Cohen's "Hallelujah." Could have been Pete's theme song if this were a movie. _That'd make me the long-suffering best friend_, Joe thought. _And this guy? With a mouth like that and a voice like that?_ "You could be singing like a canary," Joe said. "On-key, too, if your mouth makes words the way it makes tunes."

Patrick glanced up sideways. "The only one who knows that is my shower head."

In spite of the put-together outfit and the artfully-messed platinum dye-job, he could see the sweat on the other guy's skin. But instead of making him look guilty, it just made him look dewy.

_Christ, I really have to write that book_. _And put this guy in it_. "Shame. Sounds like you have a nice voice." Joe's brows lowered. "Provided it's not for blabbing."

"I've kept bigger secrets under harsher circumstances than one playboy with a lousy sense of self-preservation," the pool boy--Patrick--said easily. "I wouldn't have made it past staffing if my references weren't impeccable." He shot Joe a glance. "When's the last time your people had to confront a serious threat outside your walls?"

A playboy with a lousy sense of self-preservation. "Before my time." Joe nodded to acknowledge the other man's implications. "Point taken." He rose from the barstool and leaned over to drop his cup in the soapy water. He felt himself relax just a little bit. This guy saw what he saw, that was all. Whatever fixation Pete developed was as fleeting as the starch in this guy's dress shirt, which was looking decidedly wilted up close. "We don't play nice with interlopers."

**

Patrick watched the henchman leave the patio. He knew his words had hit a nerve. Trohman hadn't needed to pour his heart out like a maudlin drunk propping up the bar for Patrick to figure out that he, too, seemed to have some personal stake in the hot disaster that was Pete Wentz. He finished up at the bar and emptied the pool bucket. He parked the trolley in the dock and packed up the kit. The mid-afternoon sun slanted over the pool and baked the flagstones and even Trohman had disappeared from the immediate vicinity.

There were perimeter guards, unobtrusively eyeing the hillside and the road in front of the villa, and Patrick had already noted a number of security cameras and mentally mapped out their viewing angles. He wondered how many of the partygoers believed their more illicit activities hadn't been caught on camera. By his reckoning, only part of the Cabana was off-screen, and maybe the thin strip of ground between the one side of the pool shed and the cliff.

The Don hadn't requested any sort of tampering with the feeds, so Patrick kept his activities to ones that wouldn't be suspicious if caught on camera. He was just here to observe, anyway. Intervention would only come at the word of the Don. Still, it felt like being famous, the number of eyes both electronic and human that fixed on his mundane activities. Maybe that's why he insisted on the dress pants, button-down, and bow-tie.

He stepped into the lee of the pool shed's door and it was a physical sensation to have the eyes of the perimeter guards off him. He popped the door open, closed it behind him and leaned against it, breathing a heavy sigh in the cool, chemically-scented darkness. He unfastened his bow tie, then popped the top two buttons on his shirt. He waited for a moment, then popped the next two as well. He'd tucked a bar towel into his belt and felt only a little bad about using it as a sweat mop for the back of his neck. Two minutes in here, he told himself, then it's back outside to hunt down the wild Pete.

Pete, who'd garnered the Don's personal attention enough to send the Soul Punk into the Clandestine compound for reconnaissance. Wentz, whose henchman had just grilled Patrick like he was a teenage prom date with nefarious designs on his virtue. _I already have nefarious designs on his virtue_, Patrick thought, _if he has any left at all, I'm coming for it_.

He brought his water bottle to his lips and took a long pull, resting one hand against the door frame and just enjoying the cool darkness for one more luxurious minute. And maybe thinking about the way water beaded on sun-kissed skin that seemed to inspire bad decisions.

He had his hand on the latch when a low voice pierced the silence and scared the sense right out of him. "I know what you think of me."

The water bottle dropped as Patrick whirled. The man himself, seemingly conjured from nowhere, like a gold lame lounge wizard, perched on the corner of the worktable, his head lolling against the wall. The weak sunlight that filtered through the grimy window flashed across one amber eye, fixed on Patrick like he was looking for answers.

"I think nothing of you," Patrick said carefully. "That sounded more neutral in my head."

"Lotta people think nothing of me." Pete hopped down from the bench, the bright fabric of his swim trunks faintly glowing in the gloom. "I don't care about them. Why do I care about you?"

"I make you drinks?" Patrick tried against a suddenly dry mouth. "If I like you, I'll make 'em stronger, get you the buzz you need faster?"

"See, I don't think that's true," Pete said, a challenge in his voice. "I think I can't stop thinking about yesterday."

Patrick pressed his mouth together hard for a second while he tried to compose himself. Yesterday had been a skirmish. This felt like an ambush. He took a deep breath through his nose. "I'm discreet," he said firmly. "What happens in the pool shed stays in the pool shed. Your reputation will stay intact." He stuck his jaw out. "No payoffs necessary."

Wentz barked out a laugh. "That's the thing, see? My reputation, as you call it, was never at risk. Not from this." He stepped closer. "Not until you."

"Um," was all Patrick could come up with. Fuck. He knew yesterday was a mistake. He should have run as soon as that sharp-toothed smile sent a streak of heat to his groin. Never mind Pete's wide-eyed awe when Patrick's fingers first breached his body, where no one had ever gone before. Never mind the way Pete's hair poured over Patrick's shoulder when his head lolled back in pleasure. Never mind the endless, too-short moments afterward with Pete's thundering pulse slowing under his hand and sweat sealing them together in silence with a raucous crowd outside completely unaware of their absence.

"I just don't know why." Pete was too close, and Patrick's body prickled with new sweat having nothing to do with the heat of the day outside.

He licked his lips. "Why?"

"Yeah. Why." It was a statement. "Why I keep going over it in my mind. Why I'm good enough for you to fuck but not respect--"

"Hey," Patrick snapped. "That's not--"

"And why I care." Pete shoved his fingers against Patrick's mouth. "I never cared," he said. "I never wanted--it never mattered after the orgasm." He traced a thumb lightly over Patrick's bottom lip. "Didn't matter much before, either, as long as I was getting my dick wet." He replaced his fingers with his mouth, swallowing Patrick's argument (not that it was much of one anyway). "I was an asshole," he said against Patrick's mouth. "I should have thought better of you."

Fuck. One sentence was all it took for Wentz to go from jagoff nightmare to jack off fantasy. "You--" Patrick panted around the sudden urge to swallow Pete's tongue. "You should think better of your own self."

Patrick went from being too aware of every inch of Pete's body pressed against his to not having enough of him. Never having enough. He flipped them around so that Pete's back was at the door and dropped to his knees, tugging at the stretchy fabric of his swim trunks. Pete's cock sprang free and bounced against his stomach and that stupid tattoo only once before Patrick captured it between his lips.

Pete groaned. "Fuck you, pool boy," he growled. But his hips snapped forward.

Patrick closed his leather-clad palm around the shaft and gave it a light twist as he licked the crown and the beads of salty moisture there. "Fuck you right back. You don't--you don't know how good--" He huffed at his lack of articulation and settled for using his mouth to speak a language that Pete could understand. He flicked his tongue around the sensitive underside and bobbed his head down almost all the way, cupping his hand around Pete's balls with a light grip. Letting two fingers slide behind them towards the crease of his ass.

Above him, Pete's head bumped the door. "Fuck...your mouth."

Patrick took a breather to say, "General idea, yeah." He looked up. Pete's head was tilted back, but when Patrick dug his nails into his hip to get his attention, Pete dropped his chin to his chest, his expression both captivated and desperate. Patrick splayed his other hand across Pete's naked hip. "I don't go to my knees for anyone who doesn't deserve it," he said.

This may have been unexplored territory to Pete (highly doubtful, Patrick thought. Mouths weren't all that different) but Patrick knew what he was doing--and knew how good he could be at it. He tilted his head, swirled his tongue, flicked it up and down Pete's shaft until the other man's moans crowded each other to stampede towards the exit past his lips. He held Pete's hips still with his hands, moving his fingers from balls to ass crease to inner thighs, where he felt delicate trembling turn to quaking tremors and the balls in his palm tightened. Patrick went deep in anticipation, humming low to open his throat and it was the tipping point for Pete.

"Patrick!" He slammed his head against the door with an audible crack. Patrick's mouth flooded with heat and salt and he swallowed, a shudder passing through his body from Pete's.

For long moments, the only sounds in the pool house were the sounds of their heavy breaths mingling in the dim, dusty light. Patrick rested his cheek on Pete's hip, his mouth next to Pete's softening cock, his male scent mixed with the water-scent of the pool. He remembered last time when he made to pull away and clean up right after how Pete clutched at his hands around his waist. He ran light fingers down Pete's flanks and waited for the other man's trembling to slow and quiet, ignoring his own raging hard-on.

Instead, Pete tugged his arms until he stood up. "Not this time, pool boy," he growled. "You don't get to leave me weak-kneed only to run off."

Patrick's eyes widened. Pete pushed him against the door and loosened his belt with surprising skill and swiftness. Two seconds later, Patrick's pants were around his thighs and Pete's tongue lapped at the hollow of his throat.

"Pete you don't--"

"Shut up, Patrick. When I fuck up, I make it right." He pulled away and Patrick fell into the trap of hot whiskey eyes burning into his own. "I'm gonna make it _so_ right."

_Lord have mercy_. Patrick's head thunked back against the door as Pete went all the way down and finally--gloriously finally!--that mouth was around Patrick's cock--exactly where it was made to be.

Okay, so Pete wasn't a virtuoso at sucking dick, but what he lacked in finesse, he made up for in enthusiasm and Patrick would be good god-damned if it didn't have an effect on him. Inside his wing-tip shoes, his toes curled as Pete took him so far down he thought they'd discover a gag-reflex in an explosive manner, but the only thing he learned right then was that Pete didn't seem to _have_ a gag-reflex. But he had a little habit of humming in time with the bobs of his head and that turned into something Patrick could work with.

His hands fisted against his hips as he focused all his efforts on not thrusting into Pete's mouth while tension curled in his crotch. His efforts went to hell when Pete took his hand, peeled the fingers free, and placed it on his head. "Jesus _fuck_," Patrick breathed as he tangled his fingers in Pete's sun-kissed hair, gazing down at the miracle that was Pete Wentz sucking his dick.

The miracle that turned into devastation when Pete's gaze flickered up and met his at the same time he hummed a long, low moan that vibrated right to the center of Patrick's balls and the tight coil at the base of his cock reached its break-point. Patrick's jaw went slack, he lost feeling in his fingers and toes and forgot every name but Pete's as he came his brains out.

Bless his heart, Pete tried to swallow, but Patrick's ears were finely-tuned to the faint drips falling to the floor. His harsh, rasping breaths swirled the dust motes in the sunlight as he gazed down at Pete on his knees in front of him. Pete wiped his chin and ducked his head. With shaking hands, Patrick handed him the bar towel from his pocket. At the last minute, when Pete's fingers closed around the towel, Patrick held back. "Let me," he said and gently ran the fabric over Pete's chin and the corner of his mouth.

In an impulsive move, Patrick bent down and kissed the last traces of himself away. His hand was still tangled in Pete's hair and he unlocked his fingers into a much gentler hold. "Thank you."

Pete stood up to a series of light nips at Patrick's bottom lip. "I won't--I know what you think of me," Pete said, echoing his words from earlier. "Just--if you can pretend, my room is the last one on the left. I'll leave the patio door unlocked and turn the camera off."

Patrick's entire body tightened. A swoop turned over his solar plexus. "Pete," he said. "I don't see you like they do." He tilted his head up to meet amber eyes. "And I won't treat you like they do, either."

"So you don't want--"

It was Patrick's turn to put fingers against Pete's lips. "I _do_ want." He moved away from the door, his legs still wobbly. "But if you think I'm going to fuck you, steal your wallet, then disappear with gossip on my lips, you can think again."

Pete took a shaky breath. Patrick pressed his fingers harder and in response, Pete licked them. Patrick had to close his eyes against the shudder that rippled through his body. "I'll keep your secrets, Pete." _For now_, he thought. _Until my assignment changes_. "But secrets have a way of coming out." At Pete's sudden tension. Patrick shook his head once. "Shh. I'm not going to tell, but it's a reality for--for people like us." He couldn't resist any longer and nuzzled Pete's neck. The other man's unique scent mingled with his own and he desperately wanted to bottle it and imprint it forever. "When it comes out, hit fast and hard. Don't let other people's prejudices even take the battlefield. Poison them in their sleep, bomb them before they get their shoes on."

It was a lesson Patrick learned himself--painfully--a few years back. Truant Wave's numbers had gone down by half when his companionship with Brendon had become known. Patrick, for his part, tried to wait, argue his case, be democratic about it. The resulting disarray ended up needing the Don's personal intervention to keep Truant Wave from completely imploding into a street brawl with a body count. The tensions forced Brendon to hive off from his clan and Patrick to take on the role of Soul Punk to repay the Don. Northern Downpour was, appropriately, north of the boundaries and seldom crossed paths with Truant Wave. And on lonely nights, Patrick sometimes exchanged one-handed texts with Brendon, but never more than that. The price demanded by the Don to keep the peace.

Pete angled his head so Patrick could nuzzle closer. "I'm not--I don't hit hard," he said, reluctantly detangling his limbs from Patrick's.

Patrick pressed his lips against Pete's and thought about Joe Trohman. "I bet you know somebody who does."

That evening, the navy limo took Pete out. Patrick slid into the terrace doors at the north end of the villa and had every intention of being there and naked when Pete came back home. In the meantime, he looked at the art on the walls and recognized the artist's name from a children's book that everybody knew. A few internet searches later showed the artist as having been nearly destitute, until a Patreon drive had backed a modest showing of his original artworks and a mystery patron had outbid (some would say over-bid) for every piece in the collection. The sale of the collection had allowed the artist time and space to create a second volume of children's stories, supported by the art sale. _Goddammit_, thought Patrick, and wiped his eyes. _I'm gonna fuck him gently all the way into next Tuesday_.

His phone pinged with a text from Andy. _Don't make any plans_.

He rang up a second later. "Goddammit, Hurley."

"Shit just got real, Patrick. We need to meet now. Be at the driveway in ten."

Ten minutes later, Patrick climbed into Andy's nondescript Honda to face a grim-looking Andy who handed him a folder that turned him white. "It's time to call the Don."

Trohman might not hit hard enough.

**

Patrick knew when he was in over his head. Truant Wave had stayed relevant and un-fuck-withable for as long as it had because Andy Hurley was a good strategist, and Patrick Stump was a people person and knew who to assign to what projects based on their strengths. He also knew when to radio for backup. He requested a meeting with the Don.

It was early morning (or very late night) after the bars and clubs had all shut down before the dark-windowed limousine cruised down Sunset to pick him up on the corner where even the low-rent hookers had called it a night. The cool interior was a blessed change from the persistent sun and constant sheen of sweat that coated his body. "We have a problem, and I think it's above my pay grade, even as the Soul Punk." He told the Don the details of the chemicals in the pool shed, showing pictures of the set-up with what he'd believed was floral tape or someone's stupid mess.

The Don requested the visitor logs and Patrick provided them via Andy's link. "No one gets past me to the pool shed," he said. Except Pete on not one, but two occasions. "And the hangers-on are too self-absorbed. I've kept an eye on them and I know the tells. The only time somebody had a motive more ulterior than cheap drugs and free drinks, Trohman spotted her within five minutes and had her gone before minute six."

Patrick folded his hands and met the Don's eyes with a clear, direct gaze. "My professional opinion is that, based on certain...fractures in the organizational environment, Pete is a weak link in the chain who's also pretty high-up. He'd be a perfect target to take out from the outside to destabilize the clan and cause a deep rupture that could collapse the whole organization." He took a breath and clenched his stomach against the butterflies swimming there. "But Clandestine's internal security is tight enough that I'm the only successful infiltration thus far, and I certainly didn't place those chemicals and that fuse tape. That set-up? It's an inside job." He kept his eyes on the Don's and it was only his extreme attention to detail that caught the flicker there. _The Don has a personal interest in this_. He tested his theory. "Someone within Clandestine walls wants Pete Wentz out of the picture."

There it was again. The Don's eyes flashed with worry. Concern.

Sure, it could have been the streetlights flashing and receding as the limo crawled down the Strip, but Patrick was a person who had met Pete Wentz. Somehow, it didn't surprise him that even the Don wasn't immune to Pete's charm. Patrick decided to tuck that information away for mulling over later. The Don was mysterious at best, downright inscrutable most days, and fond of playing long games and running long plans that took years to come to fruition. The Don liked to _invest_ in people. And the Don could play a waiting game like a siege army around a fortified castle. Sooner or later, the walls fell and the Don would still be there.

"Someone wishing to topple the clan from within seems an unlikely scenario. The resulting chaos of destroying a power player like Clandestine puts all parties at risk."

Patrick nodded. "I think you're correct in that. This seems like an inside job for inside reasons. Someone who desires a power shift, but not an entire collapse. Pete's the clan head's son," he said. "But father and son aren't on the best of terms. He doesn't seem to take after his father much."

"This life isn't for everyone born into it," the Don said.

"Anyone planning to take the son out would have to be positioned to survive the father's wrath and grief. Trohman Senior is the clan head's main banker."

"It's not Trohman Senior," the Don said firmly enough that Patrick didn't doubt that Trohman Senior might be serving two masters, as it were.

"The other most likely candidate is Kathryn Gutierrez." Patrick motioned to the Don's laptop. "It's in the file. Gutierrez has sons in the hierarchy and has been taking more of a lead in Clandestine businesses in the last eight years. She's--er, how do I put this--picked up the slack one would expect the heir to the clan to take on." He didn't want to portray Pete as unworthy, but the man who'd taken the trouble to acquire an entire collection of serious pieces of art created by a children's book artist so that its increased value could open doors for the artist to illustrate a sequel to that book? That man was ill-suited to taking on Clandestine's underworld operations any more than he already was involved in. "Don. _Capo_. Pete's not made for this life. At least not in that clan. Even if his father backed him, it'd do nothing more than deepen the fractures already in Clandestine and could destabilize it further."

"You have a suggestion for me, I take it?" The Don's voice was slightly amused.

Patrick nodded. "Take him out of there. Get him someplace where I can--I mean, _you_ can--protect him."

"Extractions are troublesome, my enforcer." The Don leaned back, apparently to consider things further. "They leave power vacuums and unstable relationship networks. It's all about relationships in this business."

The lights of the city as the car glided along Sunset Boulevard blinded him at regular intervals. "His relationship with his father isn't going to save him. What I found when I put the pieces together? That's long-term planning." He shook his head. "Gutierrez is willing to wait out Senior's grief and banking on her own necessity to protect her from his wrath."

"Suffering in the near-term in anticipation of long-term gain is...not unheard of among Clandestine's ranks." The Don sighed. "It's time. Get him out of there and bring him to me."

"Are you certain?" Patrick swallowed. "I can protect him. Truant Wave can--" He didn't want Pete to have to face the Don. "He's no threat, I swear--"

"I'll be the judge of that." The Don's voice firmed up.

Patrick had to try once more. "But visiting you--that's usually a one-way trip." He couldn't imagine Pete disappearing into wherever the Don stored the more troublesome elements of the underworld. After all, that downtown high rise had a lot of floors--up top and down below street level.

The Don placed two fingers on his jaw, tilting his head up to meet a steady, knowing gaze. "It wasn't for you, my Soul Punk."

He didn't know whether to be frightened or comforted by the thread of amusement in the Don's voice. "My life was never again the same, though." He cocked his head, risking the Don's wrath, but he had to ask. "Why'd you do it, anyway? Take a young punk off the streets and turn me into your right hand? Truant Wave were just a bunch of--we had nothing but our fists and anger."

The interior of the luxury car was silent for a moment, then the Don spoke. "You were a revolution, looking for a cause. I simply offered you the one you really wanted."

"And Wentz?"

"A soldier, conscripted too young, who never wanted a war," the Don replied. "But who needs to know his battle is won." The Don leaned back as the car glided to a halt outside the Clandestine villa. "This business teaches you nothing if not the value of a single soul put in the right place at the right time."  
**

Pete was at the club, forgetting about the night he spent alone. Patrick hadn't come to his room last night and he wasn't at the bar this afternoon, either. Not that Pete had the time. While his friends frolicked in the pool, Pete had been locked away in his study, inventing spreadsheets and records and contracts and business plans with an occasional tossed-out question to Joe about how this or that worked, and if that guy who'd been hustling on the corner was part of Pete's chain of command or some schmuck from the suburbs. He'd burned himself out and was only half-done when the call came to head to the club--there was a big name on the prowl, looking for a good time, and Pete was the Good-Time Guy. Whether he felt like it or not.

The hotshot from Vegas--Ross or somebody, Pete hadn't really paid attention--was interested in a new market for Mona Lisa, his party mix that Pete had the perfect clientele for. Pete was in the middle of the casual friend-to-friend discussions that made up his approach to Doing Business when two of his dad's heavies appeared, "requesting" his presence. Now he sat in the back of the navy blue Bentley while his father expected him to pull a filing cabinet out of his ass because fucking Kathryn just couldn't wait. "Dad, you pulled me away from a business deal. You said you were uninspired, but how am I supposed to be _inspirational_ when I have to handle paperwork?"

Beside his father, Kathryn watched him with narrowed eyes. "I'm not interested in inspiration, Mister Wentz. I'm interested in profitability. It's my job to determine whether your..._inspiration_ here is an income stream or a cost center." She paused as his father's phone rang.

Wentz Senior turned away to take the call, jamming a finger in his other ear. Pete crossed his arms and glared at her, openly hostile outside of his father's watchful eye. "Maybe you should tell your son to quit costing me deals with his cheap get-laid-by-models schemes."

Kathryn's mouth formed a pleasant expression when Wentz Senior glanced over at her and held up a hand in a "just one second" gesture. She leaned forward and dropped her voice to a whisper. "In this economy, Pete dear, if we're not increasing profits, we'll have no choice but to..._cut_ costs." She ran a thumb across her throat.

Pete's mouth went dry. _Message received_. "Look, I'll get you what you asked for. I don't keep records. My father taught me not to."

"That's old-school thinking," she said, leaning back with the body language that said she was confident in her dominance of the situation. "I'm here to modernize Clandestine. Those old gentleman's-agreement ways and honor-among-thieves niceties don't bring the money in." She tapped her chin and her gaze sharpened. "Neither does nepotism, Mr. Wentz."

Wentz Senior disconnected his call. Kathryn smiled up at him. "I think we're done here, Sir. Pete and I understand each other."

His father raised an eyebrow. "That so?"

Pete nodded. "Yeah." He opened the Bentley's door and put one foot out on the sidewalk. "Everyone's a means to someone else's ends."

Joe waited for him at the curb, waiting to help him out.

What Pete didn't want his father--or Kathryn--discovering was that he didn't actually _have_ any processes. Pete moved money. He gave some of it to some people who gave more of it back to him. In between, there were agreements about not servicing that bar or servicing this one at a discount, and maybe one or two inconvenient and unfortunate break-ins to a warehouse to _liberate_ some alcohol from one end of the turf to the other. There were meetings on boats with loud music and dancing to cover up some other, smaller boats that were very quietly moving bags of things in darkness at the waterline. Pete met with people who understood what to do with things in bags--when to sell them, and when to not sell them. Who not to sell them to.

His father rolled down the window. "Expect Kathryn at the end of the week."

"Dad--" At Joe's subtle head-shake, Pete clamped his lips together. The thing was, Pete did all those things without keeping good records because he did other things that he kept very good records about. Things like introducing this musician to that promoter, this model to that executive. An artist with an attic full of paintings to a hotel manager with blank walls and a trendy address. A young woman with a good sense of color and garment structure to another young woman with contacts across the Pacific who knew how to scale up. All of whom owed him favors, many of whom paid him money, and none of whom knew that he was part of the mob. They all knew him as a patron. And _none_ of them thought he was dumb.

**

The moonlight washed over the backyard, painting Patrick in molten silver as his footsteps crunched over gravel and then quieted through the grass. Pete lay in wait on the chaise, watching the other man approach the patio with hunger in his gaze. Patrick didn't notice he was there at first as he reached for the bow tie and tugged it loose. Pete followed his movements, fascinated, as Patrick raked a hand through his hair and fumbled at the buttons of his shirt. The other man seemed to be breathing hard and his fingers at the placket were frantic.

"You know if you slow down a little and slide over here, I'll give you a tip for that striptease," Pete murmured, his voice rough to his own ears.

Patrick jumped, clearly startled. "Pete? What the hell are you doing sitting in the dark?"

"Waiting for my pool boy to fix me a drink."

"That's a load of piss that's uncomfortably close to my pool. What are you really doing out here?"

Pete looked up at the orange-stained night. "Waiting for the meteor." He flung out his arms. "Isn't that how it goes? It all falls down. Rocks fall from the sky, and everyone dies, and nobody gets an answer to why."

Patrick came closer and settled down on the chaise next to Pete. "What happened?"

Pete shook his head. "Business is ugly things. I want something beautiful." He reached over and brushed his fingers against Patrick's knee. "You're something beautiful."

** 

Patrick swallowed past the sudden fire in his throat. The Don's words still haunted him.

Pete put two fingers to his jaw in a disturbingly familiar gesture. "Kiss me?"

Patrick glanced up towards the house. "Out here?"

Pete tilted his chin up. "They already think the worst."

Patrick's next glance up at the villa was through narrowed eyes. "They don't know you at all." The Don's instructions were a banked fire low in his solar plexus. A single soul, at the right place and the right time. He leaned into Pete's touch.

His mouth moved over Pete's. This time, gentle and pliant. They pushed each other back and forth until Patrick crawled onto Pete's chaise. The night and the jacaranda and the crickets lay over them like a blanket. _A blanket fort_, Patrick thought. Under the glimmer of stars and the electronic prying eyes that neither he nor Pete cared about.

Pete was hard underneath him, his hips canting up against Patrick's own growing erection. But Patrick wanted to take his time. He dropped his head down to breathe in the heat and scent of Pete's skin, raining little kisses down his neck, past the thorny barrier around his heart, and lower to his copper-penny nipples. Pete's hands plucked at the fabric of his shirt and Patrick shifted his shoulders to get the garment free of his arms. Pete, for his part, was already mostly bare, save for the shorts and his ridiculous gold lame kimono. Patrick tugged at the shorts and Pete lifted his hips so the fabric could slide down and free his cock.

Underneath him, Pete moved restless and Patrick had to hold his hips down to keep him still enough for his mouth not to miss. He dragged his lips over the crown of Pete's cock before taking him into his mouth. Pete uttered a loud moan and dropped one hand into Patrick's hair. The other fumbled in his robe pocket. The flask clinked to the flagstones but Pete pressed the lube into Patrick's hand. "C'mon," he murmured, sliding a condom packet next to the bottle.

Patrick glanced up, not liking the thread he heard in Pete's voice. Pete spread his legs and drew his knees up. "I want to," he said. "Tonight. Right here."

He popped off the head of Pete's dick and rested his chin on Pete's ridiculous tattoo, nuzzling the heated skin there. He put his hand on Pete's chest. "I was going to come to your room. Last one, right?" He pointed in the direction of the villa's north wing.

"Do it here." Pete's eyes shimmered in the faint light coming from the city, the submerged pool lights, the landscaping. "You--you didn't come last night."

"Hey," Patrick said, sliding up to cover the other man's body with his own. "I did, but I had to go home and--let my dog out." It wasn't a total lie. He dropped down onto Pete. Holding him down, keeping him from spiraling. He pressed his lips against Pete's as the other man twisted his head to stare upside down at the darkened villa.

It hit Patrick then. Pete was performing. For the security cams, the implacable guards, the silent spectators. _Goddammit, Pete_, he thought. _You're performing for them and they're trying to kill you_.

Patrick took Pete's chin in his hands. "Here." he pressed the lube into Pete's palm. "You drive." He laced their fingers together long enough for a squeeze.

"But I thought you could...you know."

Patrick sat up and reached for his belt buckle with one hand. With the other, he pressed two fingers to Pete's cheek, forcing the other man to look at him. "Give 'em a show, right? Is that what you want?" He undid his pants and reached for more buttons on his shirt, his actions becoming more aggressive as his temper simmered. "Show them how tough you are?" He tossed the lube to the side. "Who needs lube, am I right? Just go in dry to prove how--how--"

"Patrick--"

Patrick leaned down until his nose touched Pete's. "I told you the first time--no self-hate. You don't get to use me to punish yourself, so if you want to fuck for performance art--" He shimmied his pants down and kicked them off one leg, "--then you do the fucking."

**

Pete stared up into Patrick's face, reading the challenge in the bartender's eyes. "Just--" he waved his hand. "Come here, okay? I don't want to be in there, I want to be out here, under the stars, with the water and the moon. You--you look--your skin in the moonlight is--I'd paint it but I don't think there's a color that would do it justice."

At his side, Patrick's hand twitched and it was just enough for Pete to capture his fingers and tug. This time, when Patrick sank down on top of him, Pete felt safe. Grounded. More in control. Or rather, as much in control as he could be with this incredible man's body against his. He tilted his chin up for a long kiss. "Patrick, Patrick," he murmured. "I'm allowed only so many beautiful things, and I want you to be one of them. Let this be something beautiful?"

That first time in the pool shed, Patrick held Pete up from behind as he came apart. This time, Patrick straddled Pete and Pete's arms were the strong ones. Patrick guided his fingers where they needed to be. Together, they rolled the condom onto Pete's aching cock. Patrick's deep-water gaze held his as the smaller man eased down, then bottomed out. Pete held him up, inside and out, and their movements were the gentle waves of the infinity pool in the dark night. A low, but inexorable current pulling them both towards an edge where they plunged together into freefall.

Afterward, Patrick's fingers tangled at Pete's nape. "You ever think of getting out?"

Pete stared up at the stars. "I wouldn't know how." He licked his lips and buried his nose in Patrick's hair. "I couldn't fight my way out. Best I can do is wash out."

"But what if you could?"

"I used to think I could get so big--so powerful--so important that I could write my own ticket, you know?" Pete shook his head ruefully. "Now I'm just trying to stay so small-time that I'm not important enough to bother stomping." He looked up at the moon. "I can't matter to anybody."

"You matter to somebody. You matter to me."

Patrick slipped away into the cabana long enough to retrieve some oversize towels and beach blankets and to turn off the underwater lights in the pool. Pete was cold until he came back and wrapped the patchwork fabric around both of them. Pete tightened his embrace as soon as the other man finished squirming. "Stay," he said. "I know it can't be forever--you're the pool boy and I'm the wise guy, but I'm not wise and you're more of a man than anyone I've ever met but just--don't leave. Not yet. I'll--I'll make us coffee in the morning. Waffles."

"Do you know how to make waffles?"

"I can read a box of waffle mix and I'm sure the kitchen has one in there somewhere," Pete said with confidence, knowing there was a chef on staff in the villa and hoping that Patrick didn't know, so that he could impress the pool boy and if he cheated a little, well, it was _a means to an end_.

Patrick's smile flashed in the darkness. "I'll stay, if you dream about going, okay?"

**

Patrick woke as the sky was just beginning to gray. Beneath him, still wrapped in the blankets and towels, Pete slept with his mouth open, jaw slack and lips soft. _He promised me waffles_, Patrick thought, affection swelling his chest. Knowing that waffles might be beyond him, he was going to try anyway. _The least I can do is start the coffee_.

He pulled his pants back on and slipped up into the villa's north doors. From there, he found his way to the kitchen and found coffee service already prepped, sitting out on a wooden tray with a small placard that read, "Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz III." Patrick took the tray and backed out onto the terrace, picking his way carefully across the flagstones in the gray, pre-dawn light. There was a lovely little patio grouping midway down that would make a nice place to have coffee.

Patrick set the coffee service down on the little table and poured out a cup. A slash of crimson just began to tease the eastern horizon. Nice place to have coffee and maybe broach the subject of Pete leaving Clandestine of his own free will. He took a sip of the coffee and wished he'd put more milk in to cut the odd bitterness to it. Before Patrick had to resort to something unpleasant, like drugging his--drugging his--"Shit."

The crimson, the gray, the patio, and the coffee all went black.

**

Patrick came to with a groan. His head throbbed and something wet and warm and sticky ran down into his eye and he didn't think it was anything from last night. He blinked twice and recognized the tiles to the cabana showers. He went to wipe his eyes and found his hands tied behind his back.

Rough fingertips tapped his cheek. "Hey!"

He lifted his head slowly and blinked up as his vision resolved mirror images into a single one that made actual sense. "Trohman? Where--who?"

Joe's blue eyes searched his face, then fixed on his. "I'll save time," he said. "It was Joe the Henchman, in the Cabana, with the Needle." He held up a syringe. "My friend here is gonna help you and me have an honest, heart-to-heart chat about my boy Wentz." He sunk the needle into the side of Patrick's neck.

Patrick grunted at the burn-pinch, then the cold rush of the liquid rushing into his veins. Fuck. He'd been made. "How long was I out?" The last thing he remembered was thinking the coffee tasted a bit off just after picking up the tray to carry it out to Pete. Fuck again. "Where's Pete? What did you do to Pete?" He wanted to keep the tremor out of his voice, but Pete needed to know--he needed to tell Pete--_Stay_, Pete begged last night. _I said I would. I promised_.

"Pete will be fine."

Patrick shook his head and sudden nausea welled at the movement. "No, he won't. He needs to know I'll be back--" He swallowed it down.

"He needs to stop sleeping with dirtbags that make him cry afterward."

"Trohman--you're making a mistake." Patrick brought Joe's face back into focus. "Wait--when did he cry?"

Joe grabbed a chair from outside the shower and flipped it around before straddling it. "I don't make mistakes as far as Pete's concerned."

Patrick hiccuped. "Everybody's mistaken about Pete," he said. "Everybody except--" _Nope. Can't say that name_.

"You," Joe said, "Are going to spill."

Patrick shook his head. "I'm really not. S-see--I'm a perf-perfessional." He felt his tongue loosening though.

"Professional what? Hitman? You got Wentz in your crosshairs?"

"Crosshairs?" Patrick started to chuckle. "How come nobody laughs at that word? It's funny, am I right? Cross-hairs. Like ass-hairs only...I dunno, different?" Patrick peered up at Trohman. "Hey, your hair's pretty curly, you know. It's very luxuriant."

Joe huffed. "Uhh, thanks?"

He pressed his lips together and Patrick wanted to smoosh Joe's cheeks to get him to loosen them up again. "You love Pete, don't you?"

"Love him enough to make sure your plans don't go off. Who sent you? Who do you work for?"

Patrick shook his head. _Can't say the name_. "It's okay, I'm with the band," he said. "I've always wanted to say that." He leaned over. "You know, I play guitar, too."

Joe sighed. "I bet you do. In another life, we'd probably have week-long jam sessions and tour the countryside in a shitty van that looks like it belongs to Chester the Molester." He rubbed his temple. "But in this one, you're a danger to Pete. And my job is to keep danger away from Pete. No matter how hard he tries to find it or how badly he wants it."

Patrick shook his head. "'S'not me that's the danger. Pool's the danger. I'm the guy who takes care of it." He pointed a lazy finger at Joe, who was looking funnier with each passing moment. "I take care of so much," he drawled. "Took care of Pete, too. Made him...feel good. Be good. Is good, taaaaastes good!" He didn't know why he burst into song, but it felt like a good idea. The best idea, in fact. "Muuuust be mine! 'Cause I'm all dressed up and naked!"

"Fuck, what the hell did I unleash?"

Patrick grinned up at him. "Too much truth serum, my dude. You only need a little to loosen lips. Looooose lips siiiink ships," he sang some more. Snippets of songs he'd written, heard, made up on the fly.

"What do you take care of? And how do you take care of it?"

"Oh, I'm good at taking care of things," Patrick said. "I have a Pomeranian and she's adorable. And a friend, too. Andy's a good friend. And a gang. I have a gang, you know. They like me. They're okay with me. But--but we're not okay when some clans start getting too big for their britches. Sometimes you need the Truant Wave to wash over the streets and set everything right again. Can't have things get out of balance, y'know. Upsets things. Makes things messy." His toes squeaked when he dragged his shoes across the linoleum. "Bloody. Nobody wants bloody. Least of all the--" he burped.

"No, nobody wants bloody." Joe wrinkled his nose and Patrick laughed at the silly face. "Christ, you're a bleeder. Did you have to fall onto every sharp edge of the flagstones face first?"

"I dunno, I didn't ask to fall over. I don't want bloody, I already said." Patrick shrugged. "You know, nobody wants asplodey, either. Which is why it's really weird that the pool shed's one big giant bomb just waiting to go off. Think you guys might wanna look into that before somebody gets barbecued. See, I don't think Pete would make good barbecue. And I hate barbecue sauce. If I'm gonna lick anything off Pete's abs, it's gonna be honey. Barbecue sauce is gross."

Joe didn't seem to be listening to him anymore, so Patrick drifted off into a rendition of Maroon 5's "Sugar" that he'd hate himself for if he were sober. Joe wasn't really interested in harmonizing though. His movements suddenly turned fast and frantic as he untied Patrick. "Whatcha doin', Joey?"

"Corroborating your story." Joe stood up and pulled Patrick to his feet. The room spun and Patrick giggled. "Look. Just--" Joe pulled him forward and Patrick floated along like a balloon--_I'm a human balloon_, he thought with more giggles. He was still giggling when the tall man dropped him into the chaise lounge. _Hey, we had sex on this chaise lounge_, Patrick thought. He didn't realize he'd said it out loud until Joe muttered, "I'll take 'Things I Didn't Need to Know' for five hundred, Alex."

Patrick pawed at him. "Well, something you _should_ know is that you can't just cut the wire in there. You have to find the--the little--the little hats. Otherwise...'boom!' says my demo expert."

"What the fuck did you do?"

"Me?" Patrick stared up at Joe. "That shit's been in there--and I do mean it's shit. That shit's been in there for weeks. My demo guy is the one who figured out it's really boom-shit." He looked up at Joe. "That's why I was coming to Pete's room last night. I needed--needed to save him." Suddenly, the giggles went away and Patrick felt a huge wave of sadness pull him underwater. "Only I can't--I can't do it by myself because I don't know bombs and stuff and--"

Joe's face took on a rictus mask of horror as Patrick began to cry.

"Fuck, dude." He held out a hand. "Look just--stay there, okay. Don't cry. You--you don't want Pete to be sad, do you?"

Patrick sniffed and shook his head. "No. What'd you do with Pete? He was here. We had sex here. It was good."

"Jesus Christ I'm never doing shit with sodium pentathol again. Listen, Pete would be really sad if you cried, okay? I'm going to go check the shed. Stay there."

Patrick watched with sadness as Joe ran away from him. He gave a forlorn wave. "Bye, Joe. Don't blow up, okay. It'd be very not-cool if you blew up."

**

Pete found Patrick sprawled on a deck chair. His bow-tie was crooked and his crisp shirt was soaked with sweat. His bleach-blonde hair was soaked with the same sweat, mixed with strawberry-syrup blood from the gash in his forehead. And those undertow eyes were dilated and cloudy with confusion. "Ohh...hey, Pete." He grinned up, showing a mouthful of bloodied teeth that thankfully seemed to all still be in their proper places.

Pete gasped and dropped to a crouch next to him. "Patrick? Patrick, what happened? Who did this to you?"

"Dunno," Patrick mumbled, reaching up to drag his fingers across Pete's mouth. "Such a pretty mouth, babe," he mumbled, then giggled. "Pretty boy, you are." His speech slurred like he'd had too much to drink but Pete couldn't smell alcohol.

Pete stuck his own fingers in between Patrick's lips. "Your mouth is pretty," he retorted. But his searching fingers came up empty. No pills, no tabs.

"Are we--are we pretty enough together?" Patrick giggled. "Pretty in punk." He giggled again. "My head hurts."

"What did you take?" Pete was starting to get worried. Patrick's gaze was unfocused, true, but his eyes tracked Pete's every move. "A pill? A piece of paper? Did you put anything in your veins?"

Patrick burst into another fit of giggles. "Not it!" he cried. "But somebody else sure did!" He lifted his hand again, the leather driving glove sticky with something--maybe dried blood? "Put sunshine in my veins to see if my secrets would spill out." The hand landed on Pete's hair, just above his ear as Patrick struggled to sit up. "But secrets," he whispered, "They live in the dark, don't they? We do it in the dark." He tried to kiss Pete but just ended up mashing his lips somewhere along the edge of Pete's jaw.

Something began to burn inside Pete, deep behind his navel, cradled by his hips and caged by his ribs. "Who did this?"

"Shh." Patrick's fingers trailed over his lips again. "They don't know anything about us. I kept your secret." Patrick's eyes slid away towards the valley spread out below the infinity pool. "Think I spilled one or two of my own, though." He brought the same fingers to his lips and kissed them clumsily.

"What secrets could you possibly have that my people would want? The best brand of algae blocker?"

Patrick shoved his kiss-damp fingers in between Pete's lips. Pete sucked them just once before spitting them out, trying not to remember the last time he sucked on those two fingers.

Patrick gave a blissed-out sigh. "You should tell your curly-boy not to use such a high dose next time. A little of that truth-serum shit goes a long, long way."

Pete blinked. How would the pool boy know about sodium pentathol? "What secrets, Patrick?"

Patrick shook his head. "Can't tell you, silly," he said. "M'cover'd be blown. And not in the good way like you blew me." Patrick's hand tightened around the back of his neck and he yanked Pete down. It wasn't hard, but it was enough to knock Pete off-balance. _I've been off-balance ever since that lush lip curled up in a smirk in the sun_. Pete collapsed on top of the blonde in a tangle of tanned limbs against pale.

Pete's gut burned, dread turning to molten pewter in his midsection. "What cover, Patrick?"

"Kiss me, Pete, please?" Patrick blinked up at him.

Pete couldn't say no to those eyes. "Just once, Patrick."

Patrick shook his head. "Kiss me and call me by my other name."

"What's your other name?"

"Soul Punk."

"Oh, Patrick, no. No no nonono--" Pete scrambled to get off the recliner but Patrick had suddenly become a loose-limbed octopus, with arms and legs and--and body heat everywhere while hot and cold rushed under Pete's skin.

Soul Punk.

_Petey, I have to go now._

_Momma, you can't leave me!_

_Stay with Joe. Keep each other safe. You're a big boy now._

_I'm not, Momma! I'm not big enough!_

_Where is she? Where's my wife? Find her! No clan or family will be safe from my wrath!_

_I'm sorry, Sir. The Soul Punk took her._

Pete stared down at Patrick, frozen. No--Soul Punk. His blood rushed in his ears, sounding like the ocean, the rush of the water falling off the edge of the infinity pool, the wind through the jacaranda, the buzz in his brain, the background noise of the clubs where nobody cared about him.

His hands moved under their own power up to Patrick's throat. His fingers, twining around the soft white skin and the Adam's apple he remembered pressing sex-drunk kisses to. His fingers tightened. "You--you--took her--took her--took her _took her_ stole her away from me!"

Beneath him, Patr--Soul Punk's giggles stopped and he began to gasp for breath. But those infinity-pool eyes looked at him with such softness. His head moved from side to side. "No," he rasped. "Sh-she took me." He wheezed. "T-taught m-me." His eyelids fluttered, the pools going dim. "D-din't unnerst-stan' 'til n-now." One leather-wrapped palm cupped Pete's cheek, fingers loose against his ear, threaded through his hair. "You...linch-pin...gotta s-save--" those stormy-ocean eyes rolled back in his head.

Pete wanted to press down harder, keep his fingers tight until Patrick told him _whywhywhy_\-- Memories were tumbling out of his brain fast and furious now--nights of pain and loneliness, fear tasting metallic on the back of his throat as his first deal went down behind a shitty club buying from a bunch of rough-looking toughs to turn around and sell to a bunch of metalheads. Of crying when Joe had to show him how to curb-stomp a non-payer and the kid had pleaded for mercy. Joe told him he could wear tennis shoes but Pete just wanted his mom to tell him he never had to do anything bad again.

Pete wanted to squeeze until Patrick somehow, magically reversed time to bring his mother back to stand between him and his father's cold wrath. But Patrick's mouth went slack and Pete was dragged back to midnight on this very chaise when Patrick's mouth went soft and slack for a very different reason as his body tightened around Pete's cock. Pete jerked back into himself with horror, his hands going loose. He leaned back, fighting Patrick's grip as the other man dragged in a deep and ragged breath.

"P-Patrick?" Pete's voice was a thread as thin as his grip on his sanity.

Patrick's spit-slick lips were parted and he breathed heavily. "Think we're--think we're s'posed to b-be fuckin' when you choke me, babe."

Stinging heat prickled the insides of Pete's eyelids. "I don't--I don't understand." The words came out of his throat on knife blades, tearing their way up from behind his ribcage. And Patrick's hand was still stroking the side of his face like he--like he--

"She loves you so much," he murmured. "I didn't--didn't put it together until this afternoon. All of it--"

"All of what?" Hot tears spilled over Pete's lashes. He grabbed Patrick's shoulders and shook him. "I know I'm dumb, okay! I know none of my friends really like me, but I thought you--I couldn't buy you--but you came around anyway and I--I thought--" He twisted to the side, tumbling to the flagstones on one hip that would bruise in a few hours but he didn't care. Nothing made sense anymore and all he wanted to do was dive into the pool and let the water carry him until he reached the edge and then keep going.

Soul Punk. Patrick was Soul Punk. The fuckin' _pool boy_ was Soul Punk. The entity that the underworld's Unanswerables answered to. The right hand of the Don.

Cold water washed through his gut as he realized that whoever had shot Patrick up with truth serum might know this. "Patrick? Patrick who did this to you, dammit? You still haven't answered me!" Pete shivered as he went down the list.

Patrick turned in the chaise. "Shh, Pete. It's okay. Your secrets are safe, her secrets are safe. But I think--Truant Wave is probably gonna hafta scatter." He tugged on Pete's shirt. "Something important I gotta tellya, though."

"No, Patrick, you have to tell me who did this. I have to know who--"

"Pete!" Patrick rolled off the chaise and landed on Pete and if circumstances were different, Pete would love to be his mattress. "Listen to me. You. Are. Not. Dumb." Patrick punctuated his slurry declaration with thumps to Pete's chest that started to hurt. "And I'm sorry I ever thought that about you." Patrick's fingers played with Pete's lips again. "But it's important--the pool shed--argh! I can't think with your stupid, pretty face! You are not stupid, I mean, but your face is so stupid-pretty I just wanna--" Patrick opened his mouth and Pete suddenly found his chin being gently gnawed on.

He...sorta didn't mind it. "It's okay, Patrick," he said. "Your face is stupid-pretty, too. But if you told your secrets, then that means my people are going to want to hurt you, right? So I need you to tell me what you told them."

"I gotta--gotta tell you about the pool shed." Patrick's eyes lit up. "Hey, we had sex in the pool house!"

"Sorta. I haven't forgotten."

"We should do that again."

"Later, baby. Was that what you told them?"

"No, silly!" Patrick was back to giggling again. "We can't have any more sex in the pool house because of the poop!"

"I--hey, is that a--"

"The--the--fertilizer, I mean! The pool--stuff isn't really stuff for the pool in there. That's what I found out when we fucked in there. Remember when we fucked in the pool house?"

Patrick wriggled against Pete and for as much as Pete wanted to throw his ass in the pool until he sobered up--or the truth serum wore off--the repeated reminders of how he almost fell to pieces--how Patrick _made_ him fall to pieces in such a glorious way--was confusing his poor, battered heart. "I--I remember, yeah."

"Yeah, and it was like--pheeeeeeeeewwww--BOOM!" Patrick made hand motions and whistled in a drunken approximation of--something. "Fireworks, right?"

Pete remembered seeing stars that day but--"Did you really see fireworks?" He was failing at focusing on what was important. This is important, his heart said.

Patrick nodded vigorously, then winced. "Ow, my head." He blinked twice, then smiled down at Pete. "You're my fireworks, Pete."

Pete suddenly couldn't swallow. Patrick didn't seem to notice as he went on. "Yeah--we were like, BOOM! Sex Bomb! But we really were on a bomb!" Patrick started to giggle again. "We had a sex bomb on top of a real bomb, isn't that funny?"

"Hilarious." The words sank into Pete's brain. He never claimed to be the smartest man in the world, but Patrick's fragmented words were starting to make some horrible sense. Pool chemicals and fertilizer--classic bomb ingredients. Put there by whom? Clandestine had an entire branch of soldiers on maintenance at the properties. But the villa was Pete's main residence. Even when his father came to visit and conduct business (read: yell at Pete) from the Hills, he never went near the pool. "Who else knows about this?"

"The Don, of course. The Don wants balance in the underworld. That's why I Soul Punk."

Pete couldn't stop his bitter, forked tongue. "Was it _balance_ to steal my mother away from me? Ask your precious Don that!" He shoved Patrick to the side and scrambled to his feet. "Goddammit, Patrick! Who the hell knows? Who took you?"

Patrick rolled unsteadily to his feet and blinked up at Pete. "Who do you think got between you and everything that could hurt you since you were ten years old?"

Pete blinked. "I--"

"Your Joe," Patrick said.

Pete's stomach did a backflip. Joe? Joe had taken Patrick? Out of Pete's own bed--er, chaise lounge? How could he? How _dare_ he? "But--why?"

Patrick's eyes sharpened and for an instant, he looked stone-cold sober. "He thought you were getting in too deep with me," Patrick said quietly. "That I was going to break your heart." He shook his head, then groaned and put a leather-covered palm to his temple. "Fuck, that really hurts." Patrick slumped back down on the chaise. "When I told him about the bomb stuff, he thought I put it in the pool house, but it was there when I got here."

"Somebody's been planning something," Pete murmured. "For the pool that only I ever use, in the house that's where I go to sleep every night, and they have access enough to have done it under my nose in spite of Clandestine security."

Patrick peered up at him. "That's why I was here," he said. "Not in spite of, but with the help of. Someone in Clandestine wants you--oh, God, I'm gonna hur--" Patrick went from sweaty to pale to green in the space of an "oh, God" and turned his head just in time to throw up on the flagstones next to Pete's shoes.

Three full heaves and two acidic burps later, Patrick wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and looked up at Pete. "Sorry about your shoes," he said.

"Fuck my shoes. Someone in the clan wants me dead." For the first time, Pete confronted a future where he didn't have Clandestine's backing. No Dirty to cross palms, no Joe silently looming behind him with the Squad, ready to remove the inconveniences and obstacles.

No Dad to breathe down his neck and press a gun into his palm and whisper that it was time to man up for the clan-up. Pete swallowed down his own sudden bile. Somewhere along the way, Pete moved far enough into somebody's Liability column that they wanted him gone in no uncertain terms. Kathryn in the car last night, dragging her thumb across her throat. "Fuck, Patrick. What am I gonna do?" _I can't take on Kathryn_.

The Patrick who raised his head now looked much more sober and much more like he'd been worked over. But the clarity in his eyes overshadowed his bruised face. "You're gonna form your own clan," he said. "And you're gonna be in charge. I--I put it together this afternoon. I think she planned this for you all along."

Pete's jaw slackened. "Patrick, what the hell are you talking about? I couldn't run a clan if my life depended on it. Let's be honest here, I was never any good at this shit anyway." And who was this _she_ Patrick kept talking about?

Patrick took Pete's hands in his. "Your life _does_ depend on it," he said gravely. "And it's all there, already. You're the one running the booze distribution. You're the one who's controlling the access on the Strip. It's _your_ face they see when they need to put a little shine on a party. All you have to do is declare your independence and meet with the Don." He blinked rapidly. "I can take you there right now." He paused. "I mean, right after I throw up again--"

**

Sometimes, the dumb things are what keep you going. Pete focused on dumb things--getting Patrick to the cabana house and cleaned up, patched up, and sobered up as much as possible with the truth serum still kicking through his system--while the rest of his mind freaked out. All the sadness, the loneliness, the awful things he thought about himself when he couldn't medicate them away--they bubbled up and popped like fetid little poison-bombs (and just in case he forgot, he was right next door to a pretty big poison-bomb that had been intended for him) but he put one foot in front of the other. Get Patrick in the shower. Get Patrick a toothbrush. Get Patrick back into the shower after he wandered out looking for food. Get Patrick to put the toothbrush in his mouth--_no, the other end, with the bristles_. Dress Patrick. Try not to look at Patrick's shower-pink skin all dewy and clean and definitely don't lick water droplets off his rosy nipples no matter how stiff they got in the open air.

Call Joe. Suffer through Joe's embarrassed and defensive apology. Confirm once, twice, six times that the detonator tape was really all gone from the chemicals in the pool house, along with all the "little hats" Patrick insisted on yammering about, because he couldn't remember the words "blasting cap." Face Joe and tell him that Pete was leaving Clandestine and going independent and that if Joe ratted him out, he would find him and finally get over his aversion to physical violence. Ask Joe to repeat himself when Joe said he was coming with.

"I'm coming with you," Joe said, more slowly this time. "Dude, we've been together since you were thirteen. I cannot leave you to fend for yourself and hog all the good clubs, especially if you're moving into the contested turf on the south end of the Strip." Joe folded his arms and scowled at the sprawled-out Patrick taking up space on the changing bench. "There are some good live music venues there, and somebody has got to keep an eye on those delinquents in Truant Wave." He sent a pointed glance in Patrick's direction.

Pete did more dumb things, like lock his arm around Patrick's waist as they made their way into the car that pulled up along the road leading into the canyon after leaving the villa on foot. "No Clandestine rides," Patrick said, and Joe backed him up. Patrick used his phone to call for their rescue and when the car door opened to a disapproving Andy, Patrick made introductions and Pete endured the stink-eye from Patrick's lieutenant until they pulled into the carport of a downtown high-rise.

Patrick squeezed his hand tightly. "When you meet the Don, keep your eyes down until the bodyguards have been given the signal to clear the room."

It was a dumb thing to obey, but Pete was good at doing dumb things. Now he stood in the middle of the room with a truly dazzling view of LA below as twilight was turning the sky orange and indigo, waiting for the Don to enter the room. Patrick sat on a surprisingly well-worn raspberry leather couch, his hand tucked under his head as he stared at Pete.

"What?" Pete stole glances at Patrick as he kept his face turned towards the carpet.

Patrick's smile was soft. "She loves you so much and now I see why. You're so easy to fall in love with. You make it so easy. You take away the edges, break down people's walls. Like an infinity pool."

Pete's breath caught. "Is that what happened?"

Patrick gave a short bark of laughter. "The edge is just an illusion. You go on and on."

Behind Pete, the door opened and closed again. He heard a soft gasp, but kept his eyes on the carpet, as instructed. Patrick stood up from the couch, wobbling a little. "Don. May I present the head of the newest organization in the city. Pete Wentz, clan head of--" Patrick nudged him. "Speak your new clan's name," he whispered.

For once, Pete was prepared. He licked his lips and spoke the name. "DecayDance," he said. "Decay for the limitations that dissolve and Dance because--my mother loved to dance."

He heard light footfalls across the carpet and a pair of shoes stopped in front of him. "Oh honey," the Don said, placing fingers under his chin to tilt his head up to meet eyes the same luminous amber as his own. "I still do."

**

It took Pete fifteen minutes to untangle himself from the Don's arms. He just kept saying, "Mom mom mama mom _mommommom_," his breath hitched on sobs. For her part, Pete's mom dropped to the comfy couch and pulled her son down with her until his tears dried up. Patrick had tried to slip away and leave the two of them alone to their reunion, but the Don shook her head each time.

Patrick curled in the over-stuffed easy chair and the Don had pointed to the loveseat with a stern glance at Joe, who sat obediently, elbows resting on his knees. Pete had dropped his head in her lap and she sat, stroking his sun-kissed hair. "Joe Trohman," she said, using the Don's voice.

Joe straightened. "Ma'am."

"You remained at his side when I couldn't. You placed yourself between him and everything that would hurt him. There is no way I can repay you for the life I took from you on his behalf."

Joe opened his mouth. "Don--"

The Don shook her head. "You should have been building your own branch of an empire. Security and prosperity for yourself and your kin. Instead, I can offer you my protection, my blessing, and my boon, should you have need of anything."

Joe's eyes widened. "Ma'am, that's unnecessary. I love Pete--"

"It is mandatory," the Don replied, her voice firm. "You were there when I could not be."

Joe blushed. "Thank you, ma'am."

The Don turned to Patrick. "My Soul Punk," she said. "You saved his life from treachery too close to his home."

"Under your orders, ma'am," Patrick replied. Her tone wasn't unfriendly, but neither was it overflowing with warmth.

"Indeed," she said. "But I think you have also taken something from him."

Patrick straightened. "I didn't--I don't--"

"I may not have been there, but I am still his mother, and I know what love looks like on his face." She stroked Pete's hair. "Not even Joe could train him to hide that part of him." She glanced down with a fond, soft expression and Patrick's throat closed just a little in envy. His was not an underworld family, nor particularly close. "I think you've taken a heart that doesn't belong to you."

But--He licked nervous lips and glanced at Pete. Pete had his eyes closed, but his body language said he heard every word. "The pool he loves so much? The one I took care of? It only looks like it's shallow. It relies on illusion and Plexiglas to look like it could fall forever and still have a depth to it." His mouth was too dry but he kept the words coming. They'd been bottled up too long. "Pete is the real deal. He spills over the edge and keeps falling to the end of the world, but he's always brimming full." A glimmer peeked out from between Pete's lashes and Patrick fixed his gaze on that gleam. "When you fall into him, you could fall forever. I could fall forever." Patrick licked dry lips. "But he's clear water, ma'am. Don't make him wash blood off his hands."

"What do you suggest?" The Don arched a manicured eyebrow.

"Let DecayDance be an arm outside the underworld. Let his interests go legit." Patrick knotted his fingers together. "I've seen how hard you work to keep the balance between the clans. It's a sight easier with pipelines in the outside world. People like Kathryn Gutierrez only know violence and greed, and soon enough, our only business will be violence and greed. Any group of meatheads could do that."

The Don nodded. "The old Don who brought me into the position came from the ashes of violence and greed and wanted something better, more refined."

"He chose his heir well, ma'am," Patrick said.

Pete's mother smiled. "You're a flatterer, Soul Punk."

"I'm in love with your son, Mrs. Wentz."

Pete lifted his head from his mother's lap. "Wait--my mom is the Don?"

On the loveseat, Joe buried his face in his hands and snorted.

The Don closed her eyes, a soft smile playing about her lips. "Peter," she said with affection and exasperation and pure joy in her voice.

"I was kidding. Mom." Pete said the word as if tasting it. His eyes met Patrick's. "You love me?"

Patrick nodded. The fragile joy on Pete's face sent hooks into Patrick's soul and he felt his own lips curve up. "How does anybody not love you?"

Pete shifted on the couch to look up into his mother's face. "I could go legit. Most of my business is already legit."

Joe stretched his legs out. "Whatever's not, I'm handling."

"Truant Wave would be happy to provide additional security," Patrick said. "I'll make sure Andy knows. And I'll do--well, whatever you allow me to do to help." He glanced at Pete. "I'm sorry, Pete. I'll do everything I can in whatever time I have."

"Then it is so," the Don said. "DecayDance is recognized. She tapped a button on the brooch at her bosom. Two silent guards entered the room and flanked the door. "Spread the word. Freeze that ambitious Clandestine bitch out of every deal she's part of for the next three months. She tried to murder my son."

"Is that enough, ma'am?" One of the enforcers asked.

"I wasn't done." She held up an elegant hand. "A son for a son, I think. Bring me her son. Christopher, I believe."

Pete sat up. "Chris? He's an asshat but please, Mom, don't kill him for what she did." He looked a little panicked.

Mrs. Wentz stroked her son's hair. "Baby, I'm not a monster. But you see, the cost of your father's ambition all those years ago was the loss of something important to him. It taught him some humility. I think that Mrs. Gutierrez will learn some humility with the loss of something important to her."

"But--"

Patrick leaned over and took Pete's hand in his own. "She's the Don. She knows things. And she's really good at it. Trust her, okay?"

"I think it's time for a new Soul Punk, Patrick. Don't you?" The Don held out her hand for Patrick to take. "I don't have your heart anymore, do I, my boy?"

He went down on one knee and kissed her ring. He shook his head. "Pete seems to collect them without even trying. Mine's just the latest on the stack of his ill-gotten gains."

The Don sighed, a light laugh teasing at her lips. "I suppose there's no one I'd rather see protecting my son than my own enforcer."

"I'll never forget all you've done for me, ma'am."

"Give your loyalty to my son now. We'll make young Mr. Gutierrez an adequate replacement." She petted his hair. "Keep him out of trouble."

"I will, ma'am." His eyes met Pete's. "Come with?"

Pete's grip tightened on his mother's legs. "Um--"

The Don patted Pete's hand. "Go, my son. You'll stay here with me for as long as it takes to get your new territory established. We have time to make up for, you and I."

**

Pete was in a daze as Patrick led him out of the penthouse suite towards the private staircase that led to the roof. "Patrick, you worked for my mom all this time?"

Patrick shook his head and pulled Pete in for a peckish kiss. "I worked for the Don. I had no idea she was your mom until recently." He chuckled to himself. "I should have seen the resemblance. Is that a problem?"

Pete shook his head, his heart swollen. "You gave me my mom back." He wouldn't mind a plunge into deep waters to clear his head and realign everything, but he guessed that was a thing of the past. "Where are we going?"

"You'll see." Patrick pulled him up the stairs to a narrow foyer and a nondescript door. "Ready?"

Pete nodded. Patrick pushed open the door and they emerged into the sunlight on the building's rooftop. Pete's shoes crunched on the pea gravel as he followed Patrick around the low wall and an air conditioning vent to reveal--"Oh my fucking god, you are _kidding!_"

Patrick's grin lit up his whole face as he held out one hand. Pete only had heart-eyes for Patrick as he stepped forward and kissed the blonde with as much passion and affection as he could fit into a pair of lips.

Still, the pool that seemed to fall off the edge of the rooftop behind Patrick wasn't half bad to look at, either.

**Author's Note:**

> Shoutouts go out to sn1tchesandtalkers, kindchen, laudanum, ginandkeroscene, littlesnowpea, and platinumandpercocet, as well as earlgreytea and carbon and the discord crew - it takes a lot to herd cats (especially when they're dumb disaster cats with very bad fashion sense) through a full-length story. Special thanks to the Peterick Creations Challenge crew for running the challenges which have been 210% positive experiences all around. Hat tip to rainbowmatic-stumpomatic on tumblr for the wonderful moodboard!
> 
> Disclaimer: The real mob is bad and yes, it's stupid, but not the fun kind of stupid where nobody gets hurt. Don't do crime, kids, even dumb crime.


End file.
